3. <L Saul Collection
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nineteenth Century
Englteb literature
puvcbasefc in part
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Department of Englfsb in
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HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
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A VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY
VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY
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HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN A CO.
VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY
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SELECTIONS ILLUSTRATING THE EDITOR'S CRITICAL
REVIEW OF BRITISH POETRY IN THE
REIGN OF VICTORIA
EDITED BY
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN
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BY EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN.
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To
ELLEN MACKAY HUTCHINSON
INTRODUCTION
WHILE this book is properly termed an Anthology, its scope is limited to the
yield of one nation during a single reign. Its compiler's office is not that of one
who ranges the whole field of English poetry, from the ballad period to our own
time, thus having eight centuries from which to choose his songs and idyls, each
" round and perfect as a star." This has been variously essayed ; once, at least, in
such a manner as to render it unlikely that any new effort, for years to come, will
better the result attained.
On the other hand, the present work relates to the poetry of the English people,
and of the English tongue, that knight peerless among languages, at this stage of
their manifold development. I am fortunate in being able to make use of such
resources for the purpose of gathering, in a single yet inclusive volume, a Victo
rian garland fairly entitled to its name. The conditions not only permit but
require me while choosing nothing that does not further the general plan to
be somewhat less rigid and eclectic than if examining the full domain of English
poesy. That plan is not to offer a collection of absolutely flawless poems, long since
become classic and accepted as models ; but in fact to make a truthful exhibit of the
course of song during the last sixty years, as shown by the poets of Great Britain
in the best of their shorter productions.
Otherwise, and as the title-page implies, this Anthology is designed to supplement
my " Victorian Poets," by choice and typical examples of the work discussed in
that review. These are given in unmutilated form, except that, with respect to
a few extended narrative or dramatic pieces, I do not hesitate to make extracts
which are somewhat complete in themselves ; it being difficult otherwise to repre
sent certain names, and yet desirable that they shall be in some wise represented.
At first I thought to follow a strictly chronological method: that is, to give
authors succession in the order of their birth-dates ; but had not gone far before it
was plain that such an arrangement conveyed no true idea of the poetic movement
INTRODUCTION
within the years involved. It was disastrously inconsistent with the course taken
in the critical survey now familiar to readers of various editions since its orig
inal issue in 1875 and extension in 1887. In that work the leading poets, and
the various groups and " schools," are examined for the most part in the order of
their coming into vogue. Some of the earlier-born published late in life, or other
wise outlasted their juniors, and thus belong to the later rather than the opening
divisions of the period. In the end, I conformed to the plan shown in the ensuing
" Table of Contents." This, it will be perceived, is first set off into three divisions
of the reign, and secondly into classes of poets, which in each class, finally, are
quoted in order of their seniority. For page-reference, then, the reader will not
depend upon the " Contents," but turn to the Indexes of Authors, First Lines,
and Titles, at the end of the volume.
It is an arbitrary thing, at the best, to classify poets, like song-birds, into genera
and species ; nor is this attempted at all in my later division, which aims to pre
sent them chronologically. Time itself, however, is a pretty logical curator, and at
least decides the associations wherewith we invest the names of singers long gone
by. Those so individual as to fall into no obvious alliance are called " distinctive,"
in the first and middle divisions at large. Song and hymn makers, dramatists,
meditative poets, etc., are easily differentiated, and the formation of other groups
corresponds with that outlined in " Victorian Poets." Upon the method thus
adopted, and with friendly allowance for the personal equation, it seems to me
that a conspectus of the last sixty years can be satisfactorily obtained. The shorter
pieces named in my critical essays, as having distinction, are usually given here.
While representing the poetic leaders most fully, I have not overlooked choice
estrays, and I have been regardful of the minor yet significant drifts by which
the tendencies of any literary or artistic generation frequently are discerned. In
trying to select the best and most characteristic pieces, one sometimes finds, by
a paradox, that an author when most characteristic is not always at his best. On
the whole, and nearly always with respect to the elder poets whose work has under
gone long sifting, poems well'known and favored deserve their repute ; and pref
erence has not been given, merely for the sake of novelty, to inferior productions.
Authors who were closely held to task in the critical volume are represented, in the
Anthology, by their work least open to criticism. Finally, I believe that all those
discussed in the former book, whether as objects of extended review or as minor
contemporaries, are represented here, except a few that have failed to justify their
promise or have produced little suited to such a collection. In addition, a showing
INTRODUCTION xi
is made of various poets hopefully come to light since the extension of my survey,
in 1887. Others of equal merit, doubtless, are omitted, but with youth on their
side they may well await the recognition of future editors.
This Introduction goes beyond the scope of the usual Preface, in order that those
rho (as students of English poetry) avail themselves of the Anthology, and who
ive but a limited knowledge of the modern field, may readily understand the gen-
and secondary divisions. To such readers a word concerning the period may
of interest.
In a letter to the editor, Canon Dixon speaks of " the Victorian Period " as " one
of the longest in literary history ; perhaps the longest." With regard to an indi
vidual, or to a reign, length of years is itself an aid to distinction, through its pro
longation of a specific tendency or motive. The reign now closing has been one in
which a kingdom has become an empire ; its power has broadened and its wealth
and invention have increased as never before. In science, and in works of
the imagination, despite the realistic stress of journalism, twenty years of the
recent era outvie any fifty between the Protectorate and the beginning of our
century. During every temporary lull we fear sterility, but one need not confine
his retrospection to the blank from 1700 to 1795 to be assured that an all-round
comparison with the past must be in our favor. While, then, it is but a hazardous
thing to estimate one's own day, the essays to which the Anthology is a complement
would not have been written but for a conviction that the time under review was
destined to rank with the foremost times of England's intellectual activity, to be
classed, it well might be, among the few culminating eras of European thought and
art, as one to which even the title of " Age " should be applied. We speak of
Queen Anne's time ; of the Georgian Period, and we have epochs within periods ;
but we say the Age of Pericles, the Augustan Age, the Elizabethan Age, and it is
not beyond conjecture that posterity may award the master epithet to the time of
Carlyle and Froude, of Mill and Spencer and Darwin, of Dickens, Thackeray, and
their successors, of Tennyson and Browning, and thus not only for its wonders
of power, science, invention, but for an imaginative fertility unequalled since " the
spacious days " of the Virgin Queen. The years of her modern successor, whose
larger sway betokens such an evolution, have been so prolonged, and so beneficent
under the continuous wisdom of her statesmen, that the present reign may find no
historic equal in centuries to come. An instinctive recognition of this seems now to
prevail. Even the adjective " Victorian " was unfamiliar, if it had been employed
at all, when I used it in the title of a magazine essay (the germ of my subsequent
xii INTRODUCTION
volume) published in January, 1873. It is now as well in use as " Elizabethan " or
" Georgian," and advisedly, for the cycle bearing the name has so rounded upon it
self that an estimate of its characteristic portion can be made ab extra ; all the
more, because in these latter days " the thoughts of men " are not only " widened,"
but hastened toward just conclusions, as if in geometrical progression. What, then,
my early essays found an ample ground for study, the present compilation seeks to
illustrate, and I trust that, although restricted to brief exemplifications, it will some
what justify this preliminary claim.
In the following pages, then, the period is divided into, first, the early years of
the reign ; second, the Victorian epoch proper ; third, the present time. A survey of
the opening division brings out an interesting fact. Of the poets cited as prominent
after 1835 and until the death of Wordsworth, scarcely one shows any trace of the
artistic and speculative qualities which are essentially Victorian. Well-informed
readers may be surprised to find so many antedating the influence of Tennyson,
untouched by his captivating and for a long time dominating style. Their work is
that of a transition era, holding over into the present reign. It was noted for its
songs and sentiment. The feeling of Wordsworth is plain in its meditative verse ; yet
to this time belong Bulwer, Macaulay, the " Blackwood " and " Bentley " coteries,
" Barry Cornwall," and those " strayed Elizabethans," Darley and Beddoes. Mil-
man, Talf ourd, Knowles, and others are not quoted, partly on account of their lack of
quality, but chiefly because at their best they are late Georgian rather than early
Victorian. Praed comes in as the pioneer of our society-verse ; Elliott as a bard of
" the new day." In fact, the Reform Bill crisis evoked the humanitarian spirit,
poetically at its height in the writings of Hood and Mrs. Browning. To include
Wordsworth, the Queen's first laureate of her own appointment, farther than by a
prelude on ** the passing of the elder bards " would be to rob the Georgian Period of
the leader of one of its great poetic movements ; yet Wordsworth breathes through
out our entire selection, wherever Nature is concerned, or philosophic thought, and
not only in the contemplative verse, but in the composite, and never more strenu
ously than in Palgrave and Arnold, of the middle division, and such a poet as Wat
son, of the third. Landor, though the comrade of Southey, the foil of Byron, and
the delight of Shelley, begins this volume, as he began its predecessor ; for Landor
with his finish, his classical serenity, and his wonderful retention of the artistic fac
ulty until his death a score of years after the Accession belonged to no era
more than to our own, and we may almost say that in poetry he and Swinburne
were of the same generation.
INTRODUCTION xiil
Two thirds of our space are naturally required for selections from the typical
division. This is seen to begin with the appointment of Tennyson as laureate, since
he scarcely had a following until about that date. In him we find, on the reflective
side, a sense of Nature akin to Wordsworth's, and on the aesthetic, an artistic per
fection foretokened by Keats, in other words, insight and taste united through
his genius had their outcome in the composite idyllic school, supremely represen
tative of the Victorian prime. Tennyson idealized the full advance of nineteenth
century speculation, ethical and scientific, in the production of " In Memoriam,"
and to the end in such a poem as " Vastness." Possibly, also, it was out of his early
mediaeval romanticism that the next most striking school arose with Rossetti and his
fellow Pre-Raphaelites who are grouped as Poets of the Renaissance : their revival in
cluding both Greek and Gothic modes and motives, as finally combined in the mas-
terwork of Swinburne. The third and equal force of the epoch is that of Browning,
long holding his rugged ground alone, as afterward with half the world to stay him ;
but, like other men of unique genius, not the founder of a school, his manner fail
ing in weaker hands. In Arnold's composite verse the reflective prevails over the aes
thetic. Besides these chiefs of the quarter-century are various " distinctive " poets,
as in the earlier division, each belonging to no general group. Then we have the
songsters, for whom all of us confess a kindly feeling ; the balladists withal, and the
dramatists, such as they are ; also the makers of lighter verse, and other lyrists
of a modest station, often yielding something that lends a special grace to an
Anthology.
The closing era is of the recent poets of Great Britain, and begins very clearly
about twenty years ago. At that date, the direct influences of Tennyson, Brown
ing, Swinburne, and Rossetti began to appear less obviously, or were blended, where
apparent, in the verse of a younger generation. The new lyrists had motives of
their own, and here and there a new note. There was a lighter touch, a daintiness
of wit and esprit, a revival of early minstrel "forms," and every token of a
blithe and courtly Ecole Interme*diaire : evidence, at least, of emancipation from
the stress of the long dominant Victorian chord. The change has become decisive
since the " Jubilee Year," to which my supplementary review was extended, and
of late we have a distinctly lyrical, though minor song-burst, even if the mother
country be not, as in its springtime of pleasant minstrelsy, " a nest of singing-birds."
In the later ditties England's hawthorn-edged lanes and meadows come to mind,
the skylark carols, and we have verse as pastoral as Mr. Abbey's drawings for
Herrick and Goldsmith. This, to my view, if not very great, is more genuine and
xiv INTRODUCTION
hopeful than any further iteration of " French Forms," and the same may be occa.
sionally said for those town-lyrics which strive to express certain garish, wandering
phases of the London of to-day. Irish verse, which always has had quality, begins
to take on art. But the strongest recent work is found in the ballads of a few men
and women, and of these balladists, one born out of Great Britain is first without 3
seeming effort. As for the drama (considering the whole reign), its significant
poetry, beyond a few structures modelled after the antique, and those of Home, Tay=
lor, and Swinburne, is found mainly in the peculiar and masterful work of Browning ;
nevertheless, lyrical song indicates a dramatic inspiration, because it is so human,
and if the novel did not afford a continuous exercise of the dramatic gift, I would
look to see the drama, or verse with pronounced dramatic qualities, attend the rise
1 of the next poetic school. If, on the other hand, there is to ensue a non-imagina
tive era, a fallow interval, it will be neither strange nor much to be deplored after
! the productive affluence of the reign now ending with the century.
A selection from the minstrelsy of Great Britain's colonies fills out the scheme
of the Anthology. The Australian yield is sufficiently meagre, but I have chosen
what seems most local and characteristic. "Canada is well in the lists with a group
of lyrists whose merit has made their names familiar to readers of our own
periodicals, and who feel and healthfully express the sentiment, the atmosphere, of
their northern land. I am sure that the space reserved for them in this volume
will not seem ill-bestowed. One noteworthy trait of colonial poetry is the frequency
with which it takes the ballad form. In a rude way this is seen in the literature
of our own colonial period, and along our more recent frontier settlements. By
some law akin to that which makes balladry repeated from mouth to mouth
the natural song of primitive man, of the epic youth of a race or nation, so its form
and spirit appear to characterize the verse of a people not primitive, though the
colonial pioneers of life and literature in a new land.
To a few exquisite but unnamed quatrains and lyrics by Landor, I have pre
fixed the felicitous titles given to them by Mr. Aldrich in the little book " Cameos,"
of which he and I were the editors a score of years ago. From the early min
strels a compiler's selections are not hard to make. The panel already has been
struck by time itself, which declares that, even in the case of some uneven roisterer,
one or two fortunate catches shall preserve his name. More embarrassment comes
from the knowledge that lovers of such poets as Tennyson, who made no imperfect
poem, and Browning, who wrote none that was meaningless, are slow to understand
why certain pieces, for which an editor, doubtless, shares their own regard, are
INTRODUCTION xv
perforce omitted. To surmise, moreover, which is the one lasting note of a new voice
or which of all the younger band is to win renown, this is the labor and the work,
seeing that as to finish they are all sensitive enough, except now and then one who
invites attention by contempt for it. Nothing is more evident than the good crafts
manship of latter-day English and American verse-makers, a matter of course,
after the object-lessons given by their immediate forbears. All in all, the antholo
gist must rest his cause upon its good intention. In speaking of those who hunt
up and reprint the faulty work of authors, " the imperfect thing or thought "
which in mature years they have tried to suppress, Palgrave justly says in his
Pro Mortuis,"
" Nor has the dead worse foe than he
Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's room,
And piles them on his tomb."
Conversely, one perhaps earns some right to count himself the artist's friend,
whose endeavor is to discover and preserve, from the once cherished treasures of
even a humble fellow of the craft, at least " one gem of song, defying age."
Compact Biographical Notes, upon all the poets represented, follow the main
text. Where authorities conflict, and usually, also, in the cases of recent authors,
effort has been made to secure the desired information at first hand. For this,
and for the general result, my hearty thanks are due to the skill and patience of
Miss Vernetta E. Colemaiu who has prepared the greater portion of the Notes.
The faithfulness of the text at large has been enhanced by the cooperation of the
Riverside Press, and this is not the first time when I have been grateful to its
Corrector and his assistants for really critical attention given to a work passing
through their hands.
E. C. S.
NEW YORK, September, 1895.
NOTE
FOR the text of the selections in this Anthology, transcripts have been made, as far as possible,
from the books of the respective authors, many of which volumes are upon the editor's shelves.
Much dependence, however, has been placed on the Astor, Mercantile, Columbia College, and Soci
ety Libraries, and the Library of the Y. W. C. Association. To the librarians of these institutions
the editor's acknowledgments are rendered for courteous assistance. His thanks are due, also, to
Mr. R. H. Stoddard, Mr. R. W. Gilder, Prof. Brander Matthews, and Prof. F. D. Sherman, of
New York, Mr. Harrison S. Morris, of Philadelphia, Mr. G. H. Ellwanger, of Rochester, and Prof.
C. G. D. Roberts, late of Windsor, N. S., for giving him the use of their collections, and to a few
other friends for various services. With respect to attractive single poems, and to authors whose
original editions could not be obtained, he has found the eight volumes of Mr. Miles's "The
Poets and the Poetry of the Century " welcome aids to his research. Use also has been made of
Mr. Sharp's "Canterbury Poets" series, Prof. Sladen's " Australian Poets," Mr. Schuyler-Light-
hall's " Songs of the Great Dominion," and of several minor collections of Scottish, Irish, and
English-dialect verse.
His thanks are rendered to many living British poets, who now, under the amended copyright
law, are so closely affiliated with us, for the privilege cheerfully given of taking his own selections
from their works. This usufruct has been generously confirmed by the publishers issuing their
American editions. The editor desires to express his grateful obligations to Messrs. Mac-
millan & Co. and Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co., of London and New York ; to Messrs. Charles
Scribner's Sons, Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co., Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons, and the Frederick A.
Stokes Company, of New York ; to Messrs. Roberts Brothers and Messrs. Copeland & Day, of
Boston ; and to Messrs. Stone & Kimball and Messrs. Way & Williams, of Chicago.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. EARLY YEARS OF THE REIGN
(TRANSITION PERIOD)
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
(iMaltcr &aage Lanflor
? ^ i
AGE
OVERTURE FROM "THRASYMEDES AND
EUNOE"
3
THE HAMADRYAD . .'
3
THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA .
7
FROM "MYRTIS"
7
8
8
8
AN INVOCATION . . . ~.
8
FROM "GEBIR"
8
To YOUTH ... .*,->- .- .,
9
To AGE . , :.' <i,- * .
10
ROSE AYLMER
10
ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN BY HER
SISTER
10
CHILD OF A DAY ... . ~ :~' r : , ;
10
FIESOLAN IDYL
10
FAREWELL TO ITALY . .'
11
THE MAID'S LAMENT ....
11
MARGARET . . , , . v
12
12
PLAYS . . . . .
12
THERE FALLS WITH EVERY WEDDING
CHIME ; . * . i .
12
SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON .
12
MACAULAY
12
ROBERT BROWNING ....
13
ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OssoiJ AND HIS
WIFE MARGARET FULLER
13
13
13
13
THE TEST . l ....
13
IN AFTER TIME .
14
A PROPHECY
14
COWSLIPS
14
WRINKLES . . . . i
14
ADVICE . . . < i
14
14
TIME TO BE WISE .
THE ONE WHITE HAIR .
ON HIMSELF ....
ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR
PERSISTENCE . % . '
MAN ..... *.!-.
To SLEEP
ON LIVING TOO LONG
A THOUGHT ....
HEARTSEASE
VERSES WHY BURNT . . .*
DEATH UN DREADED .
MEMORY . . . V
FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE
THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY ... 17
SUMMER WINDS ..... 17
SONGS FROM "SYLVIA; OR, THE MAY
QUEEN"
1. Chorus of Spirits . . . . 17
2. Morning-Song ..... 17
3. Nephon's Song . l : ;' ' ^ ' . 18
4. Romanzo to Sylvia . . . .18
$rpan Waller
(" BARRY CORNWALL M )
THE SEA .
THE HUNTER'S SONG ..
THE POET'S SONG TO His WIFE
THE STORMY PETREL ..
PEACE! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL?
LIFE ..... - -.
THE BLOOD HORSE . , . .
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL . .
GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE .
A POET'S THOUGHT '
A PETITION TO TIME
19
19
20
20
20
20
21
21
22
22
XV111
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FROM "JOSEPH AND His BRETHREN
J)cnrj> Caplor
FROM " PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE ". .
FROM "EDWIN THE FAIR" ...
A CHARACTERIZATION LINES ON THE
HON. EDWARD VILLIERS ...
ARETINA'S SONG .....
22
THE HERO . . 27
lorfc ;ff acattlap
(THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY)
THE BATTLE OF NASEBY .
EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE
IVRY
EitfjarU J)enffi0t INrne
FROM "ORION: AN EPIC POEM" .
GENIUS
PELTERS OF PYRAMIDS
SOLITUDE AND THE LILY
THE SLAVE
THE PLOUGH
FROM "TORRISMOND !
DREAM-PEDLARY .
30
35
35
36
36
36
BALLAD OF HUMAN LIFE . ... 38
SONGS FROM " DEATH'S JEST-BOOK "
1. To Sea, to Sea ! . . . . 38
2. Dirge ...... 38
3. Athulf 's Death Song ... 38
4. Second Dirge ..... 39
SONGS FROM "THE BRIDES' TRAGEDY"
1. Hesperus sings .... 39
2. Love goes a-hawking . . .39
Eobert
THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN
MAWGAN OF MELHUACH . .
FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM ...
"PATER VESTER PASCIT ILLA" .
THE SILENT TOWER OF BOTTREAU
To ALFRED TENNYSON . . .
40
40
40
40
41
41
iptton
(EDWARD LYTTON BULWER)
THE CARDINAL'S SOLILOQUY FROM
"RICHELIEU" ...... 42
WHEN STARS ARE IN THE QUIET SKIES 43
Militant (KUmontifit0ttnc Slptottn
THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE . . 44
MASSACRE OF THE MACPHERSON . 46
POETS OF QUALITY
(ZTbomac iotoe Jhac0tft
THE MEN OF GOTHAM . . . .47
THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS VAWR . 47
MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK ... 47
WUntjjrop JHacfetoortI) JJraeK
THE VICAR
THE NEWLY-WEDDED .
|)artlep
THEOCRITUS
48
49
THE ROISTERERS
Harris
("THOMAS INGOLDSBT")
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS . . .
MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S ACCOUNT OF
THE CORONATION ....
OTUItam
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY
THE SOLDIER-BOY
francid JHa&onp
("FATHER PROUT")
THE SHANDON BELLS ..
54
55
55
TABLE OF CONTENTS
xix
MEDm
Gffltlliam >ttmep TOatittr
DEATH'S ALCHEMY ....
^artlep ColeriUffe
ITF
66
56
56
57
57
57
57
57
58
58
58
58
59
59
59
59
60
60
61
61
62
62
63
64
^E POETS
Cfoomag filler
THE OLD BARON
64
66
65
66
66
67
67
67
67
68
68
69
tilt
m
69
70
70
70
70
71
71
72
72
Jobn, lorU pamner
THE PINE WOODS
THE BIKTH OF SPEECH ....
WHITHER? . . .
Lortt ftotttrbton
(RICHARD MONCKTON MILNKS)
AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY
THE BROOK-SIDE . . *** , .
JFrancee Slnne feemble
THE BLACK WALL-FLOWER .
FAITH
l)enrp atlforU
To SHAKESPEARE
"MULTUM DILEXIT" . . .
&nna Jameson
TAKE ME, MOTHER EARTH . 7; .y ,,
Cbatmcp l)are CotoncIjenU
THY JOY IN SORROW ., ,y r > .
Jobn Ipcnrp JQetoman
THE SIGN or THE CROSS ....
Jo^n jlttfort
THE ROMAN LEGIONS ....
artlwr Ibenrp ^allam
WRITTEN IN EDINBURGH
ftubrep C^omas 2)e Sere
AN EPICUREAN'S EPITAPH
FLOWERS I WOULD BRING .
THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD
&ara Colerftge
FROM " PHANTASMION "
Charles i!.U)tte()eafc
Jalw >terltnff
SHAKESPEARE
Louis XV
To A CHILD
JJane SUelsb Carlple
To A SWALLOW BUILDING UNDER OUB
THE QUEEN'S VESPERS . . .
(L bomacf ^urbiU^f
Rtc&arto Cljenetoij: (ZTrcntb
AFTER THE BATTLE . ~.
SONNET
ffiliUiam l)enrp (L51l)itttortb
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ENGLISH SONG WRITERS
C&arles Stoain
CHAMPAGNE ROSE . . . .
SSUlItam potoitt
THE DEPARTURE OF THE SWALLOW
72
73
SHE WORE A WREATH OF ROSES . 73
OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE THEIR
HEADS ? . 73
JHarp (tatoitt
THE SEA FOWLER .
CORNFIELDS
I THINK ON THEE
75
TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-PATH . 76
TAKE THE WORLD AS IT is . . . 76
LIFE 76
THE ROSE THOU GAV'ST ... 77
'TWAS JUST BEFORE THE HAY WAS
MOWN ... .77
Coofc
THE QUIET EYE
THE SEA-CHILD .
Mlliatn
Bennett
BABY MAY 78
BE MINE, AND I WILL GIVE THY NAME 79
A CHRISTMAS SONG 79
SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND
MY AIN WIFE
Carlple
THE SOWER'S SONG
ADIEU
Kobert 0ilfillan
'Tis SAIR TO DREAM
THE EXILE'S SONG
JHoir
CASA'S DIRGE .
William
THE MITHERLESS BAIRN .
79
81
81
82
THE SWALLOW
iSallantine
MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG .
Stuart
MY BATH
THE EMIGRANT LASSIE
THE WORKING MAN'S SONG
SSEUliam Jfttller
WILLIE WINKIE .
C[jarle0 Jladiap
TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS
EARL NORMAN AND JOHN TRUMAN
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE .
83
84
85
IRISH MINSTRELSY
INCLUDING THE POETS OF YOUNG IRELAND
Samuel Lotoer
RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD OMENS .
WIDOW MACHREE .
SOGGARTH AROON
90
TABLE OF CONTENTS
XX)
(Sriffin
A PLACE IN THY MEMORY
NOCTURNE
James Clarence
90
91
in
DARK ROSALEEN ........ ,
SOUL AND COUNTRY 1)2
J)eien >elina, iatjp SDufferin
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT . 93
Caroline (Eli^afactl) &ara& Borton
(LADY STIELING-MAXWELL)
WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER . 93
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE . . 94
LOVE Nor , . 94
Jrancis (Mailer
KITTY NEIL . . . "
A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG
Samuel J~ crtrttcon
THE FAIRY THORN ...
VL bonus lOsfaorne u?al)tc
THE SACK OF BALTIMORE ..
THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE ..
THE WELCOME ,
96
Cbarles <9aban Ouffp
THE IRISH RAPPAREES .... 100
3Dems JFlorence fHatCartj)?
BLESS THE DEAR OLD VERDANT LAND 100
THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND . . .101
4Sartj)olometo totaling;
THE REVEL
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
101
102
Cjjomaa
THE CELTIC CROSS ..... 103
THE IRISH WIFE . . . . . 103
THE EXILE'S DEVOTION ... .104
jFranceBca ^peran^a, Lafcp
(MtlUc
(" SPBRANZA ")
THE VOICE OF THE POOB ..
Cba Ur UP
TlPPERARY .
CUen ;fflarp Patrick
WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE
104
105
. 10G
"THE OATEN FLUTE"
-Banus
(DORSIT)
WOONE SMILE MWORE
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS
THE HEARE . -.
THE CASTLE RUINS .
106
107
107
108
eutotn
(LANCASHIRE)
THE DULE 's i' THIS BONNET o' MINE 109
TH' SWEETHEART GATE . . . 109
OWD PINDER . .'*'. . .110
Samuel Lapcock
(LAHCASHIBB)
WELCOME, BONNY BRID! . . . 110
xxii
TABLE OF CONTENTS
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
(HUMANITY FREE THOUGHT POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND ARTISTIC REFORM)
(Kiiene^er lltott
ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT
A POET'S EPITAPH
THE BUILDERS .
William
THE BARONS BOLD
LIFE is LOVE
fop
Ill
112
112
112
113
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM . . 113
FLOWERS 115
FAIR INES 116
THE DEATH-BED 116
BALLAD 116
LEAR 117
BALLAD 117
FROM "Miss KILMANSEGG AND HER
PRECIOUS LEG"
1. Her Death . . . . .117
2. Her Moral . . . . .118
RUTH 119
THE WATER LADY .... 119
ODE AUTUMN 119
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT . . .120
THE LAY OF THE LABORER . . . 121
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS . . . .122
STANZAS 123
33artf)olometo Simmons
STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS
HOOD 123
garnet Jftartineatt
ON, ON, FOREVER 125
iaman ialandjarti
NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING-GLASS . 125
HIDDEN JOYS 126
(ZT&oma0 Watte
THE NET-BRAIDERS . . . .126
BIRTH AND DEATH . . 126
<t&oma0 Cooper
CHARTIST SONG . . '
127
Jlotoer
HYMN 127
LOVE 127
NEARER TO THEE . 127
Barrett 33rotoninff
THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN
MY HEART AND I ...
SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE
A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT .
FROM "CASA GUIDI WINDOWS" .
A COURT LADY
MOTHER AND POET .
FROM "AURORA LEIGH" .
THE SLEEP
domett
A GLEE FOR WINTER
A CHRISTMAS HYMN
FROM "A CHRISTMAS HYMN"
&cott
GLENKINDIE .....
YOUTH AND AGE ....
PYGMALION .....
MY MOTHER .....
THE NORNS WATERING YGGDRASILL
To THE DEAD .....
HERO-WORSHIP
William 3fame0 iinton
EVICTION
PATIENCE
OUR CAUSE
HEART AND WILL
128
130
131
134
134
136
137
139
142
143
143
144
144
145
146
146
146
147
147
147
147
148
148
FROM "A THRENODY IN MEMORY OF
ALBERT DARASZ" ..... 148
LOVE AND YOUTH ..... 149
Too LATE ....... 149
WEEP NOT ! SIGH NOT ! . . . .149
SPRING AND AUTUMN . . . .149
LOVE'S BLINDNESS ..... 149
THE SILENCED SINGER . . . .150
EPICUREAN ..... 150
Eobert Bicoll
WE 'LL A' GO PU' THE HEATHER
. 150
TABLE OF CONTENTS xxiii
BONNIE BESSIE LEE ....
150
151
152
152
153
153
153
153
154
154
LHA
158
162
163
163
164
{ H
168
169
169
170
ilarp 3lnn bans (Letoes) r
("GEORGE ELIOT")
"O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE
SONGS FROM " THE SPANISH GYPSY "
1. The Dark
OSS
" 155
155
. 155
156
156
latben itfarUs o dltlUo Call
THE PEOPLE'S PETITION
2. Song of the Zi ncali .
Crnest CJjarlcs Jones
EARTH'S BURDENS ....
C^arlec; cvflelUon
THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE . . .
Cmilp 3Sronte
SONG '
THE WRECK
TRUST THOU THY LOVE
Cfaene^er Jones
SONG OF THE KINGS OF GOLD m*/
THE FACE . . , ; v v/
157
. 157
158
164
. 164
THE OLD STOIC
WARNING AND REPLY . .
STANZAS . ", v" J ' ' '"' .
HER LAST LINES
THE I
Philip James 33aile?
FROM "FESTUS" ^ vviU'V. , f^ >', ,
SDora <0reentoell
A SONG OF FAREWELL .
To CHRISTINA ROSSETTI ....
LIGHT . . . . .
PSODISTS
BABY . .
SONG
THE DESERTER FROM THE CAUSE
CHRISTIE'S PORTRAIT . . . ,,. . -.
His BANNER OVER ME . .
.3leranUer ^mitl)
FROM "A LIFE-DRAMA"
165
. 165
166
. 166
168
. 168
WORLD AND SOUL
To - -
EARL 1 ?
James jfiontpmerp
AT HOME IN HEAVEN ....
Charlotte (Elliott
JUST AS I AM
YMNODY
BURIAL HYMN . . . , .
. 170
RIDE ON IN MAJESTY .
John feeble
WHO RUNS MAY READ . <':-!j-:,. , '
SEED TIME HYMN . '. .'*'.
HOLY MATRIMONY ....
S>ir John 33otunnj
FROM THE RECESSES . . . .
WHAT OF THB NIGHT?
171
. 171
172
.172
172
. 173
LET ME BE WITH THEE
PRAYER TO THE TRINITY ....
I)enri> hart jHtlman
HYMN FOR THE SIXTEENTH SUNDAY
XXIV
TABLE OF CONTENTS
|)enrp jFrancia ipte
&tt&ut -pcitrbpn i&tanlep
ABIDE WITH ME . . .
"Lo, WE HAVE LEFT ALL" .
THE SECRET PLACE ....
173 TEACH us TO DIE
174
C&ttetopljer Betoman J)ail
180
Samuel SSiilberfotce
MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND
180
JUST FOR TO-DAY
GIVING TO GOD
&nne Bronte
A PRAYER
181
175
ftorattug 330nat
O LORD, THY WING OUTSPREAD .
181
LOST BUT FOUND
THE VOICE FROM GALILEE .
THY WAY, NOT MINE ....
ABIDE WITH Us
THE MASTER'S TOUCH ....
A LITTLE WHILE
175
176 Cecil jFrancea &lej;an&er
^na THERE is A GREEN HILL .
lib
177
177 (Eli^abetl) Cecilia Ciep&ane
182
3T0JW Samuel 38etolep Jftonsell
THE LOST SHEEP
177 l&afcine ^Sarinff'-(!50ttHi
CHILD'S EVENING HYMN . . . .
182
183
frefcericfc OTilliam faier
THE WILL OF GOD ....
PARADISE
Jtanceg EiUlep ^aberffal
i/y
179 I GAVE MY LIFE FOR THEE
183
THE RIGHT MUST WIN ....
II. THE VICTORIAN EPOCH
(PERIOD OF TENNYSON, ARNOLD,
BROWNING, ROSSETTI, AND SWINBURNE)
COMPOSITE
IDYLLIC SCHOOL
jFre&erufe Cennpgon
THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY ....
THE BLACKBIRD
THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE
192
192
193
193
193
193
194
194
196
197
187 ORION
TO THE GrOSSAMER-LlGHT ....
189 LETTY'S GLOBE
HER FIRST-BORN
191 SUfrefc, 3LorU Cennpaon
191 THE DESERTED HOUSE
191 THE LOTOS-CATERS
FROM "NIOBE"
C&arlea Cennpson Cttmet
THE LION'S SKELETON ....
THE VACANT CAGE
THE BUOY-BELL
THE FOREST GLADE .
192 ULYSSES
192 SIR GALAHAD
TABLE OF CONTENTS
XXV
SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINE
VERE
" BREAK, BREAK, BREAK "
SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS."
As thro' the Land ....
Sweet and Low ....
Bugle Songl
Tears, Idle Tears
Thy Voice is heard
Ask Me no more
ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE
WELUNGTON ....
IE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRI
GADE ......
NORTHERN FARMER (Old Style)
THE DAISY .... V
THE FLOWER .
)ME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD .
SHELL (from " Maud ")
PASSING OF ARTHUR (from
Idylls of the King ") . . *.
IZPAH
>WER IN THE CRANNIED WALL
IG IN " THE FORESTERS " . %
VASTNESS . . . .i^^i! *: ,-:
THE SILENT VOICES . . . i/rjri
THE BAR
(Earl of 3Seacon0fcltt
(BENJAMIN D'!SRAELI)
'ELLINGTON . .,_, .
198
198
199
199
199
199
200
200
200
203
204
205
206
207
208
208
209
211
211
211
212
212
(Tbomao Meattoooto
O WIND OF THE MOUNTAIN !
IN THE GOLDEN MORNING OF THE
WORLD
A LECTURE-ROOM . . ' .
PROTEST . ....
QUA CURSUM VENTUS
THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-NA-
VUOLICH" ......
HERA .....
AMOURS DE VOYAGE"
DOMUM SATURS, VENIT HES
PERUS ......
AH ! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN .
WHERE LIES THE LAND
3lolm Campbell
ICH BEIN-Y-VREICH
213
213
213
214
214
214
215
216
217
217
218
218
219
iflenella 33ute Smetolep
THE LITTLE FAIR SOUL
Bofcert Lntfljton
THE DRIED-UP FOUNTAIN
ittattbeuj arnol*
WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S ESSAYS .
THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST
FROM "SOHRAB AND RuSTUM " .
FROM "BALDER DEAD" . . ... t .
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN .'. . ,
PHILOMELA .... ,{'?
DOVER BEACH . . . < ; . ,
FROM "EMPEDOCLES ON ETNA" . lt ^'.\
THE BURIED LIFE .
MEMORIAL VERSES (on Wordsworth)
GEIST'S GRAVE ....
Charles i\cnt
POPE AT TWICKENHAM . . .
(LQilliam CaHttoell llocroc
To LA SANSCCEUB ....
THE MASTER-CHORD . . . . '
EARTH . '. ;. \ . . .> / , 1
William fobncon Corp
MlMNERMUS IN CHURCH . . * ! ' .' '*
HERACLEITUS .....
A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S SCOTTISH
SWEETHEART . . . . " .
(iEnfotmU
EPITAPH OF DIONYSIA
219
.220
221
221
221
223
224
225
226
226
227
230
231
231
231
231
232
Cobentrp |)atmore
FROM " THE ANGEL IN THE HOUSE
THE GIRL OF ALL PERIODS .
FROM " THE UNKNOWN EROS " ..':
REGINA C<ELI .
233
235
235
Walter C. Smith
DAUGHTERS OF PHUJSTIA (from
"Olrig Grange") ..... 236
THE SELF-EXILED ..... 237
Jranda Cttrner
THE ANCIENT AND MODERN MUSES
. 239
xxvi
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PRO MOBTUIS
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN
A DANISH BARROW .
TENNYSON
&rtlwr
l)cnrp Jmrlep
Jltmfcp
239
240
240
241
241
DORIS : A PASTORAL .... 242
FROM "DOROTHY : A COUNTRY STORY"
Dorothy 243
Country Kisses 244
Dorothy's Room .... 244
Beauty at the Plough . . . .245
FLOS FLORUM 246
SWEET NATURE'S VOICE (from "Susan") 246
Craig
THE WOODRUFFE
247
FROM " ^HE LIGHT OF ASIA " . .247
THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT ... 248
AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA . . .249
RAGLAN 250
FROM " WITH SA'DI IN THE GARDEN "
Mahmud and Ayaz .... 250
Song without a Sound . . . 250
THE MUSMEE . 251
J&topfortt &ttgtt0ttt0
VERSAILLES (1784) ..... 252
THE JUNGFRAU'S CRY . . . .253
SONGS FROM " RlQUET OF THE TUFT "
Queen's Song ..... 254
Prince Riquet's Song . . . . 254
254
255
256
256
256
257
257
MARE MEDITERRANEUM
H, W. L
Jranct0, (Karl 0f Eoaslpn
BEDTIME
MEMORY
>ir letois JHorrte
AT LAST
SONG
ON A THRUSH SINGING ix AUTUMN
(Gilbert J)amertoit
THE SANYASSI
THE WILD HUNTSMEN .
EoUen
THE SECRET OF THE NIGHTINGALE
SEA SLUMBER-SONG
DYING .......
THE MERRY-GO-ROUND .
LAMENT ......
THE TOY CROSS ....
"THAT THEY ALL MAY BE ONE " .
Sir
MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU PRINCE
SUfreto &ttfitm
AT His GRAVE (Hughenden, May, 1881)
SONGS FROM "PRINCE LUCIFER"
Grave-Digger's Song
Mother-Song
AGATHA
THE HAYMAKERS' SONG
MARIAN
PHANTOMS
BY THE SALPETRIERE
A VISION OF. CHILDREN.
POETA NASCITUR
OTattd
ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKEN
THE SONNET'S VOICE
COLERIDGE . . .
THE BREATH OF AVON .
THE FIRST Kiss ....
TOAST TO OMAR KHAYYAM
SDatofo
THE DEAR OLD TOILING ONE
I DIE, BEING YOUNG
MY EPITAPH
258
259
. 259
260
, 260
261
. 261
262
. 262
263
264
265
265
265
266
266
266
267
267
267
269
269
270
270
270
271
272
272
TABLE OF CONTENTS
xxvil
272
f rctoeric (MtUiam |)enrp $1]
FROM " SAINT PAUL "...
. 291
Lux EST UMBRA DEI ...
273
. 292
273
ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD
. 292
THE FALL OF A SOUL ....
274
274
A LAST APPEAL ....
IMMORTALITY
. 292
. 292
IL FIOR I>EGLI EROICI FURORI .
274
274
A LETTER FROM NEWPORT .
I SAW, I SAW THE LOVELY CHILD .
. 292
. L".*3
275
275
(BfttDatti *DolutJCtt
RENUNCIANTS
. 293
Scanner |a ? f app
97fi
LEONARDO'S " MONNA LISA " .
. 294
. 294
276
276
;tlatffarct J9cUp
277
. 294
Codiuo ;Honfel)ou6c
SONG . . .
277
JLaKp Cttrrte
( VIOLET FAN* ")
. 295
278
A FOREBODING . . . . .
.295
THE SECRET
278
IN GREEN OLD GARDENS
296
>< u;
Eobcrt 33ttcl)anan
THE BALLAD OF JUDAS ISCARIOT .
SPRING SONG IN THE CITY .
THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA .
279
281
282
283
Samuel OTatfoinffton
THE INN OF CARE ....
SOUL AND BODY ...'..
. 297
. 297
ON A YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE > u^
283
. 297
THE SUMMER POOL ....
WE ARE CHILDREN
WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP
THE DREAM OF THE WORLD WITHOUT
DEATH (from " The Book of Orm ")
THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER
283
284
284
285
288
ETSI OMNES, EGO NON
44 THE SEA-MAIDS' Music" .
<J5eorffe jFraiuia S>abaffe=9lnn(
AUTUMN MEMORIES . , .1 .
. 299
. 299
tronjr
. 299
. 299
THE CHURCHYARD
289
ONE IN THE INFINITE
. 300
. 300
<milp flfetffet
A SONG OF WINTER ....
To A MOTH THAT DRINKETH OF THE
290
oqn
44 THE FATHER " ....
Mantes Chapman ffilooUfi
.300
. 301
To THE HERALD HONEYSUCKLE .
291
THE WORLD'S DEATH-NIGHT .
. 301
BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS
iotttea JHatattiup Cratoforti
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN . . .
301
THE OLD CAVALIER
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS
302
XXV111
TABLE OF CONTENTS
William JHaliepeace C&acfcerap
AT THE CHURCH GATE .... 303
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE . . 303
THE AGE OF WISDOM . . . .304
THE THREE TROOPERS . . . .
THE WHITE ROSE OVER THE WATER
THE JACOBITE ON TOWER HILL .
THE DEATH OF MARLBOROUGH
THE OLD GRENADIER'S STORY .
321
. 321
322
. 322
322
SORROWS OF WERTHER ....
305
THE PEN AND THE ALBUM
. 305
ejr * jj-i .,
THE MAHOGANY TREE ....
306
jlopn jyettco
THE END OF THE PLAY .
. 306
THE LAIRD OF SCHELYNLAW .
. 323
C&arlea )icfcen0
^Testi ^Tntrtlntai
THE IVY GREEN ....
. 307
J/VCMI ^j ti^vium
Cljarlefi fctngslep
THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF
LINCOLNSHIRE
324
FROM " THE SAINT'S TRAGEDY " .
308
SAILING BEYOND SEAS
. 326
309
THE LONG W^HITE SEAM
097
THE THREE FISHERS ....
309
sxt
A MYTH
THE DEAD CHURCH ....
ANDROMEDA AND THE SEA -NYMPHS
. 309
309
Eofcert SDtoper 3Toj?ce
CROSSING THE BLACKWATER .
. 327
(from " Andromeda ")
THE LAST BUCCANEER ....
. 310
310
Cllen 'lear?
LORRAINE
311
To GOD AND IRELAND TRUE
qoo
A FAREWELL
311
uuBO
SUelatoe &nne Procter
Hamilton &tte
A WOMAN'S QUESTION
A DOUBTING HEART ....
THE REQUITAL
. 312
312
, 313
313
REMEMBER OR FORGET
THE DANUBE RIVER ....
WHEN WE ARE PARTED .
THE FORSAKEN
. 328
328
. 329
329
PER PACEM AD LUCEM ....
>ina& JHaria Jftttlocfe Craifc
3Tofl!ep& Mipaep
PHILIP, MY KING
3-14
MOTHER WEPT
329
Too LATE
314
THE DEWDROP
329
THE BUTTERFLY ....
. 330
Carl of ls>autl)csk
(Sis JAMES CABNEGIB)
Bic&arfc (ftarnett
THE FLITCH OF DUNMOW .
NOVEMBER'S CADENCE ....
. 315
315
THE ISLAND OF SHADOWS
THE FAIR CIRCASSIAN
330
. 331
JHortimer Collins
THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT .
THE LYRICAL POEM ....
331
. 331
A GREEK IDYL .
THE DIDACTIC POEM ....
331
KATE TEMPLE'S SONG
q-jc
ON AN URN
332
THE IVORY GATE
olo
Qif!
AGE
332
(Milliam &lling!)am
To AMERICA
o 332
THE FAIRIES ....
317
2To|)n QToIi^unter
LOVELY MARY DONNELLY
THE SAILOR .
. 317
318
THE BANSHEE
332
A DREAM . . . .'.'.'
318
10 u or t. fir
HALF-WAKING .
319
JU. 5?t. 4JoI)u (L-i>rtuoitt
DAY AND NIGHT SONGS . .
. 319
THE GLORY OF MOTION
. 333
(Eeorffe Walter C&omlmrp
Clement S^eott
THE THREE SCARS .
320
334
MELTING OF THE EARL'S PLATE
. 320
LILIAN ADELAIDE NEILSON
. 334
TABLE OF CONTENTS
XXIX
&ara{)
OMAR AND THE PERSIAN . . .
&ir Walter 35csant
To DAPHNE ........
335
336
Latop Ltnteap
SONNET
MY HEART is A LUTE
VARIOUS DISTINCTIVE POETS
(L Iiomaa Norton bafec
OLD SOULS 337
THE SIBYI 339
Ctotoarti f tt^eralfc
FROM His PARAPHRASE OF THE RUBAI-
YAT OF OMAR KHAYYAM
Overture t V
Paradise Enow . . . . . ,
The Master-Knot ....
The Phantom Caravan .
The Moving Finger writes
And yet And yet I . . . ,
Kobert
340
340
341
341
342
342
343
SONG FROM " PARACELSUS " .
CAVALIER TUNES
1. Marching along .... 343
2. Give a Rouse 344
3. Boot and Saddle .... 344
MY LAST DUCHESS 344
INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP . . 345
IN A GONDOLA 346
SONG FROM " PIPPA PASSES " . . .348
" How THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS
FROM GHENT TO Aix" ... 349
THE LOST LEADER 350
YOUTH AND ART 350
HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD . . 351
A FACE 351
*^DE GUSTIBUS " 352
THE BISHOP ORDERS His TOMB AT
SAINT PRAXED'S CHURCH ... 352
MEETING AT NIGHT 354
PARTING AT MORNING .... 354
EVELYN HOPE 354
** CHILDE ROLAND TO THE DARK TOWER
CAME" 355
RESPECTABILITY 358
MEMORABILIA 358
ONE WAY OF LOVE 359
ONK WORD MORE 359
ABT VOOLER 362
PROSPICE 363
MISCONCEPTIONS 364
EPITAPH (Levi Lincoln Thaxter)
MUCKLE-MOUTH MEG
EPILOGUE . . . .,,>
364
364
How 's MY BOY ? . 4 ,-. ii .- .365
A NUPTIAL EVE 366
TOMMY 's DEAD . . 367
HOME IN WAR-TIME ....
AMERICA .......
EPIGRAM ON THE DEATH OF EDWARD
FORBES .......
SEA BALLAD (from " Balder ") .
DANTE, SHAKESPEARE, MILTON
"Balder")
ON THE DEATH OF MRS. BROWNING
FRAGMENT OF A SLEEP-SONG .
(from
FROM "MODERN LOVE"
44 All Other Joys" .
Hiding the Skeleton ..
The Coin of Pity .
One Twilight Hour ..
JUGGLING JERRY ' ' '
THE LARK ASCENDING .
LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT .
THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE
THE Two MASKS
368
368
368
370
370
371
371
371
371
371
373
374
374
375
A DIRGE FOR SUMMER .
WHAT THE TRUMPETER SAID
375
. 375
Cbrtfittna v5corg;ma Ho00etti
THE UNSEEN WORLD
At Home ; i ; . . . 37(
Remember ...... 37H
After Death 376
Wife to Husband 376
Up-Hill 377
"!T is FINISHED" 377
FROM " MONNA INNOMINATA "
Abnegation 378
Trust .... .378
XXX
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FLUTTERED WINGS .... 378
PASSING AND GLASSING . . . .378
THE THREAD OF LIFE . . . .379
FROM "LATER LIFE"
Sonnets VI and IX . . . .379
AN ECHO FROM WILLOWWOOD . . 379
TWIST ME A CROWN 379
GOOD-BY 380
Bofcett, Carl of Iptton
(" OWEN MEREDITH")
INDIAN LOVE-SONG 380
Aux ITALIENS 380
THE CHESS-BOARD . .382
TEMPORA ACTA (from " Babylonia ") . 382
THE DINNER-HOUR (from " Lucile ") . 383
THE LEGEND OF THE DEAD LAMBS . 383
THE UTMOST .... .384
MELENCOLIA (from " The City of Dread
ful Night") 385
LIFE'S HEBE .386
FROM " HE HEARD HER SING " . .387
Harriet (Eleanor Hamilton &in#
PALERMO (from " The Disciples ") . . 388
THE CROCUS 389
POETS OF THE RENAISSANCE
Jortr
Proton
FOR THE PICTURE, "THE LAST OF
ENGIAND " ......
O. M. B
f ofiepi Boei
REQUIEM ....... 390
THE LAST OF THE EURYDICE . . 391
Woolner
MY BEAUTIFUL LA*DY- .... 391
GIVEN OVER . 392
SDante (Gabriel
THE BLESSED DAMOZEL . . .392
THE PORTRAIT 394
FROM " THE HOUSE OF LIFE : A SON
NET-SEQUENCE "
Introductory 395
Lovesight 395
Her Gifts 395
The Dark Glass 396
Without Her 3%
Broken Music 396
Inclusiveness 396
A Superscription . 397
SONNETS ON PICTURES
A Venetian Pastoral . . . .397
Mary Magdalene 397
SUDDEN LIGHT 397
THE WOODSPURGE 398
THE SEA-LIMITS 398
A LITTLE WHILE 398
THE BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES . . 398
Htt&arK SUlatann )tj:on
ODE ON CONFLICTING CLAIMS . . .399
HUMANITY 400
FROM "MANO: A POETICAL HISTORY"
The Skylark 400
Of a Vision of Hell, which a Monk
had 400
Of Temperance in Fortune . . . 401
THE GILLYFLOWER OF GOLD . . 402
SHAMEFUL DEATH 403
THE BLUE CLOSET 403
FROM " THE EARTHLY PARADISE "
The Singer's Prelude . . . .404
Atalanta's Victory .... 405
Atalanta's Defeat 407
The King's Visit .... 408
Song : To Psyche 409
A Land across the Sea . . . 409
Antiphony ...... 410
FROM "SIGURD THE VOLSUNG"
Of the Passing Away of Brynhild . 410
The Burghers' Battle . . . .413
A Death Song 413
lotto ?De Cafclcp
(JOHN LEICESTER WARREN)
A WOODLAND GRAVE
A SIMPLE MAID
414
415
TABLE OF CONTENTS
xxxi
FORTUNE'S WHEEL
ClKCE
A SONG OF FAITH FORSWORN
THE Two OLD KINGS ..
IK MATCH .......
HKSPKKIA .......
Kr MEMORY OF WALTER SAVAGE LAN-
DOR .......
LOVK AT SEA ......
FROM " ROSAMOND " .
FROM " ATALANTA IN CALYDON "
Wlien the Hounds of Spring
We have seen Thee, O Love . ,
FROM "CHASTELARD" ....
FROM " BOTH WELL " ,
SAI-J-HO (from "On the Cliffs ")
HOPE AND FEAR . ,
ON THE DEATHS OF THOMAS CARLYLK
f AND GEORGE ELIOT . . t '/
HERTHA ......
ETUDE REALISTE .....
^THE ROUNDEL .....
A FORSAKEN GARDEN ....
ON THE MONUMENT ERECTED TO MAZ-
ZINI AT GENOA . ... . .,.
CADENCES
SIBYL .
THOROERDA
MOVE'S AUTUMN
SONGS' END .
415
415
416
417
417
417
419
420
420
421
422
422
425
427
428
428
428
431
431
432
433
434
434
435
435
436
Eofaert
POOR WITHERED ROSE
I WILL NOT LET THEE GO . ,
UPON THE SHOKB
A PASSER-BY .
ELEGY
THOU DIDST DELIGHT MY EYES ,
AWAKE, MY HEART !
O YOUTH WHOSE HOPE is HIGH
So SWEET LOVE SEEMED .
ASIAN BIRDS ,
437
437
437
438
438
438
439
439
400
439
THE FAIR MAID AND THE SUN . . 440
HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE ? 441
AT HER GRAVE 441
SILENCES . .''.'. . 441
IF SHE BUT KNEW ; 442
Pltltp -BourUr ittaroton
A GREETING . . . A . . .442
A VAIN WISH . . . . . .442
LOVE'S Music . . .... 442
THE ROSE AND THE WIND . . .443
How MY SONG OF HER BEGAN . . 444
THE OLD CHURCHYARD OF BONCHURCH 444
GARDEN FAIRIES . . . . . 444
LOVE AND Music 445
No DEATH 445
AT THE LAST . . . . . . 446
HER PITY 446
AFTER SUMMER 446
To THE SPIRIT OF POETRY . . . 447
IF You WERE HERE .... 447
AT LAST . . .447
I Com GTaplor
M " THE FOOL'S REVENGE "
ABRAHAM LINCOLN ..
DRAMATISTS AND PLAYWRIGHTS
|)erman
Meatlanfc iHareton
FROM " MARIE DE MERANIE "
ollilliam <0orman ffiUll*
CROMWELL AND HENRIETTA MARIA
(from " Charles the First ") .
CTUUiam &c!)tocncfe Gilbert
FROM " PYGMALION AND GALATEA"
448
450
452
455
457
XLX .
READY, AY, READY
THAISA'S DIRGE
461
461
462
dilUbotcr
SONGS FROM DRAMAS
News to the King . . . .462
'Tween Earth and Sky ... 462
Day is Dead ...... 463
Tell Me not of Morrows, Sweet . 463
THE DEATHS OF MYRON AND KLY-
DONB (from " In a Day "> . . .463
XXX11
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ELEGANT!^
Jrefiertcfc Locfecr^iampson
(FREDERICK LOCKEB)
To MY GRANDMOTHBK .... 465
THE WIDOW'S MITE 466
ON AN OLD MUFF .... 466
To MY MISTRESS 467
THE SKELETON IN THE CUPBOARD . 467
Hofarrt -Barnabas 3Srottgf)
MY LORD TOMNODDY . . . .468
C-barlcfi Stuart Calterlep
COMPANIONS 469
BALLAD 469
ON THE BRINK 470
A MARLOW MADRIGAL
A PORTRAIT .
THE LITTLE REBEL .
iSEtlltam Join Cottrt&ape
FROM " THE PARADISE OF BIRDS "
Birdcatcher's Song
Ode To the Roc
In Praise of Gilbert White
&it jFreUencfc |) olio tit
THE Six CARPENTERS' CASE .
.471
471
. 472
472
472
473
474
"THE LAND OF WONDER-WANDER"
(Efitoartt lear
THE JUMBLIES
475
muitam 3Srig!)tp Banto
TOPSY-TURVY WORLD . . .476
POLLY 476
DRESSING THE DOLL
I SAW A NEW WORLD
477
. 477
Claries ittttoftge 3Dotyj;0on
("LEWIS CABEOLL").
JABBERWOCKY 478
FROM " THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK " 478
OF ALICE IN WONDERLAND . . 479
III. CLOSE OF THE ERA
(INTERMEDIARY PERIOD)
RECENT POETS OF GREAT BRITAIN
Austin Ootaon
A DEAD LETTER
A RONDEAU TO ETHEL .
14 WITH PIPE AND FLUTE "
A GAGE D'AMOUR .
THE CRADLE
THE FORGOTTEN GRAVE
THE CURE'S PROGRESS
'' GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE "
DN A FAN
.483
. . 484
. 485
. 485
. 486
. 486
. 486
. 486
. 487
'ONAVis" .... 488
"0 FONS BANDUSLE"
FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS .
To A GREEK GIRL ....
ARS VICTRIX
THE LADIES OF ST. JAMES'S . .
A FAMILIAR EPISTLE . . .
44 IN AFTER DAYS" .
SSRilfrtU &catoen 4Sltmt
To MANON COMPARING HER TO A
FALCON
488
488
488
489
489
490
491
491
TABLE OF CONTENTS
XXXlll
To THE SAME ON HER LIQHT-
HEAKTEDNESS ...... 491
LAUGHTEU AND DEATH .... 491
THE OLD SQUIRE
492
frank <ZC.
DEATH AS THE TEACHER OF LOVE-
LORE . . . ... .493
DEATH AS THE FOOL . ' . . .493
TWO SONNET-SONGS
1. The Sirens sing . . . .493
2. Orpheus and the Mariners make
Answer . . .493
Cotterell
AN AUTUMN FLITTING
IN THE TWILIGHT
494
. 495
&nfcreto Lang;
BALLADES
To Theocritus, in Winter ... 495
Of the Book-Hunter . .' . .496
Of Blue China . . . .496
Of Life ....... 496
Of his Choice of a Sepulchre . . 497
ROMANCE . . . j. . . .497
THE ODYSSEY ...... 497
SAN TERENZO . . . ft t^, -497
SCYTHE SONG . ..... 498
MELVILLE AND COGHILL . ,***> 498
PARAPHRASES
Erinna . ^ . , n1w /j . . 498
Telling the Bees . . . .498
Heliodore Dead '"'.". . . 498
A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC . . . 499
THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES 499
-<Esop ..... . . " '. .499
ON CALAIS SANDS . . W n .^^ 50
William Canton
KARMA . ..... 500
LAUS INFANTIUM ..... 501
A NEW POET ...... 501
J)artlep
To A DAISY
501
8lejcanfcer ftntoenson
CUDDLE DOON . 502
milp Henrietta |)ietep
A SEA STORY 502
BELOVED, IT is MORN . . . .503
Walter Crane
A SEAT FOR THREE .... 503
ACROSS THE FIELDS 503
Cttffene Lrr bnmtlton
SIR WALTER RALEIGH TO A CAGED
LINNET 604
IZAAK WALTON TO RIVER AND BROOK . 504
CHARLES II OF SPAIN TO APPROACH
ING DEATH 504
To MY TORTOISE CHRONOS . . .504
SUNKEN GOLD ...... T*< iv. 505
SEA-SHELL MURMURS . . . .606
A FLIGHT FROM GLORY ... 606
WHAT THE SONNET is . . . .505
ON HIS "SONNETS OF THE WINGLESS
HOURS " . 606
(0rabe0
THE WHITE BLOSSOM 's OFF THE BOG . 506
frrtjcnfea IlicbnrUcon iHacUonalU
NEW YEAR'S EVE MIDNIGHT . . 606
THE DEAD CHILD . . l7 *a A' .507
IF ONLY THOU ART TRUE . . . 507
THE OLD MAID ...... 507
JreHertc
iOTeat&erlp
LONDON BRIDGE ..... 508
NANCY LEE . ...... 608
A BIRD IN THE HAND .... 609
DOUGLAS GORDON ..... 609
DARBY AND JOAN ..... 510
Catherine C. LUftell
511
511
LYING IN THE GRASS .... 511
ON A LUTE FOUND IN A SARCOPHAGUS 512
THE PIPE-PLAYER 513
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSKN, 1805-1875 513
(C. C.
JESUS THE CARPENTER
THE POET IN THE CITY .
XXXIV
TABLE OF CONTENTS
DE Rosis HIBERNIS ....
THEOCRITUS
WITH A COPY OF HERRICK .
THE VOICE OF D. G. R. .
513
. 514
514
. 514
3fof)ft lrt|)tir (Sooljcljtlft
SCHONE ROTHRAUT ....
. 527
A PARABLE OF THE SPIRIT
(Erie Jftackap
THE WAKING OF THE LARK .
MARY ARDEN
528
. 529
530
SONG FOR Music
A PASTORAL
514
. 515
TWICKENHAM FERRY ....
MAY MARGARET ....
LAST NIGHT
515
. 516
516
. 516
IN TUSCANY
. 531
532
. 532
532
. 532
533
533
jF. (Mpfcille f)ome
AN ENGLISH GIRL ....
DOVER CLIFF
CARPE DIEM
SSRalter J)errieg Pollock
BELOW THE HEIGHTS ....
516
. 517
IN A SEPTEMBER NIGHT .
f rancia WUlliam 38ottrtrillon
EURYDICE
FATHER FRANCIS .....
Jftic&ael JtclK
FROM " CANUTE THE GREAT " .
THE BURIAL OF ROBERT BROWNING .
WIND OF SUMMER ....
THE DANCERS
LETTICE
EARTH TO EARTH
AN vEouAN HARP ....
IRIS ......
517
. 517
519
. 520
520
. 520
521
. 521
521
. 522
522
A VIOLINIST
OLD AND YOUNG
THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND EYES
J)eriert eutotn Clarke
IN THE WOOD
533
. 533
. 533
A CRY
534
. 534
THE AGE
lafcp Charlotte (Elliot
THE WIFE OF LOKI ....
(Militant Barnes SDatoson
A CHILD'S PORTRAIT ....
BIRD'S SONG AT MORNING
IDEAL MEMORY
535
, 535
535
. 536
FROM " A LOVE-TRILOGY " .
THE DEAD
FROM " LOVE IN EXILE "
Eofaert Louts >teben0on
PIRATE STORY
. 522
523
. 523
To A DESOLATE FRIEND
THE ANGEL AT THE FORD
Jrancea JJaabel Jhrnell
AFTER DEATH
SUice ;ptejHiell
THE MODERN POET ....
SONG
CHANGELESS
RENOUNCEMENT
SONG OF THE NIGHT AT DAYBREAK
flaken&am Eeattp
CHARLES LAMB
536
. 537
537
. 538
538
. 538
539
. 539
539
. 539
FOREIGN LANDS
THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE
THE LAND OF NOD ....
IN THE SEASON
To N. V. DE G. S
523
. 524
524
. 524
IN THE STATES
THE SPAEWIFE
524
525
HEATHER ALE : A GALLOWAY LEGEND
THE WHAUPS To S. R. C. .
REQUIEM
525
. 526
526
. 526
527
. 527
<S5leeaon SMfctte
A BALLADE OF PLAYING CARDS
SUFFICIENCY
THE DEATH OF HAMPDEN
TABLE OF CONTENTS
XXXV
Itoer
BEFORE AND AFTEK
LAURA'S SONG
541
541
541
542
542
542
544
SPRING'S IMMORTALITY .... 545
AT THE GRAVE OF DANTE GABRIEL
ROSSETTI ....... 545
AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON . . . 545
(Efctoar* Cracroft 5Lcfrop
A SHEPHERD MAIDEN ...
A SICILIAN NIOHT
A FOOTBALL-PLAYER ...
Jflap JJrofapn
THE BEES OF MYDDELTON MANOR
" Is IT NOTHING TO You ? " . .
(ZTont SDutt
OUR CASUARINA TREE .
.545
THE LAST ABORIGINAL .... 546
THE COVES OF CRAIL . . . .547
THE ISLE OF LOST DREAMS ... 547
THE DEATH-CHILD ..... 547
FROM "SOSPIRI DI ROMA"
Susurro ...... 548
Red Poppies '. '. ... 548
The White Peacock .... 548
SONG ........ 549
Oscar GHUifte
AVE IMPERATRIX ..... 549
iS. o ol. j^laDcn
A CHRISTMAS LETTER FROM AUSTRALIA 551
SUNSET ON THE CUNIMBLA VALLEY,
BLUE MOUNTAINS . . ..552
THE TROPICS ...... 552
FROM THE DRAMA OF " CHARLES II ". 552
BALOPIA INHOSPITALIS . . . .552
henry Charles -Brrcbtnj
A SUMMER DAY ..... 553
To MY TOTEM . ..... 553
KNOWLEDGE AFTER DEATH ... 554
PRAYERS . .554
AN ETRUSCAN RING
5. iS. & .Hicbols
LINES BY A PERSON OF QUALITY
A PASTORAL
>armestettr
(A. MART F. ROBINSON)
DAWN-ANGELS . 1"" *. . .
COCKAYNE COUNTRY . . . *
CELIA'S HOME-COMING
FROM " TUSCAN CYPRESS " (Rispetti)
ROSA ROSARUM .....
DARWINISM .....
A BALLAD OF ORLEANS, 1429 .
3Jobn
HARVEST-HOME SONG
A BALLAD OF HEAVEN
LONDON
555
556
556
556
557
557
657
558
558
LOVE AND DEATH ..... 560
SISTER MARY OF THE LOVE OF GOD . 560
Elan*
BALLAD OF A BRIDAL V?M ;<l ' . . 661
Constance C . W
THE PANTHEIST'S SONG OF IMMORTAL
ITY ..... ... 662
Eennell Hot*
A ROMAN MIRROR ..... 663
ACTEA ........ 664
IMPERATOR AUGUSTUS .... 664
THE DAISY ....... 664
44 WHEN I AM DEAD" -. t" . . 664
THEN AND Now ...... 664
ffilltam Watson
EPIGRAMS
To a Seabird .
The Play of 44 King Lear"
Byron the Voluptuary .
On Diirer'8 MelencoQa
Exit
665
665
665
566
XXXVI
TABLE OF CONTENTS
LACHRYM^: MUSARUM (6th October,
1892)
565
567
568
568
569
569
569
569
569
570
570
571
571
572
572
573
574
574
574
574
575
575
576
576
576
577
577
578
578
578
Simp iLetop
A LONDON PLANE-TREE
BETWEEN THE SHOWERS .
IN THE MILE END ROAD . . .
To VERNON LEE ....
(Elizabeth Craigmple
SOLWAY SANDS
rnest Bhpe
579
579
579
. 579
579
. 580
THE FIRST SKYLARK OF SPRING
SONG IN IMITATION OF THE ELIZABETH-
&rthur BeeU Bopes
ON THE BRIDGE
3fohn Arthur $laifcie
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY ....
DIANA
581
. 581
LOVE'S SECRET NAME . . . .
jFrancte Chompflon
To A POET BREAKING SILENCE .
BRECHVA'S HARP SONG ....
581
. 582
SONG OF THE WULFSHAW LARCHES
Arthur Christopher 38en0on
582
. 582
3ame0 Kenneth Stephen
LAPSUS CALAMI To R. K. .
583
. 583
583
. 584
584
584
. 585
585
. 585
AN ENGLISH SHELL ....
AFTER CONSTRUING ....
jBorman (0ale
SONG " THIS PEACH is PINK " .
SONG " WAIT BUT A LITTLE WHILE "
A PRIEST
THE COUNTRY FAITH
A DEAD FRIEND
CONTENT
A SONNET
BofiamtmU ^Harriott (fflateon
("GBAHAM R. TOMSON")
LE MAUVAIS LARRON ....
DEID FOLKS' FERRY
THE FARM ON THE LINKS
TV "VT-w P A m
THE FIRST Kiss
585
. 586
AVE ATQUE VALE . . . . " .
li^^ie JH little
DAWN AND DARK . . . . .
a. (. <ttiller'-Cottch
THE SPLENDID SPUR ....
THE WHITE MOTH .....
A CURLEW'S CALL ....
S>eltopn 3^ma^e
THE PROTESTATION ....
586
. 586
587
. 587
590
. 591
Katharine Cpnan IMnfcson
SHEEP AND LAMBS
DE PROFUNDIS
SINGING STARS . , . . .
THE SAD MOTHER
THE DEAD COACH
JHap Kendall
A PURE HYPOTHESIS ....
A BOARD SCHOOL PASTORAL .
HER CONFIRMATION . ...
|)erfrert $. |)0rne
591
. 591
THE PAGE OF LANCELOT .
FORMOSAE PUELLAE ....
591
TABLE OF CONTENTS
xxxvii
592
THE FOLK OF THE AIR
. 604
** IF SHE BE MADE OF WHITE AND RED"
592
THE SONG OF THE OLD MOTHER.
605
iflarsarct L. TOoote
(0eorge d.Gltlliam Lltioocll
R EgT
592
("A.E.")
To THE FORGOTTEN DEAD .
592
SELF-DISCIPLINE ....
. 605
593
KKISHNA
605
THE GREAT BREATH ....
. 606
UtcbartJ Lr <J3alltrnnc
THE MAN TO THE ANGEL . . .
OM ,-i'i'i ". -;><! ya<
606
606
IMMORTALITY . . , 4 .-.,.., V v "
606
ORBITS
593
LOVE'S POOR ......
593
593
0r hrfiTrnrr ffnTrntiKlnVii
Tin \VONDER~CHILD. . . V^.13
594
VI, IJlUUUll V^ v,l I (1 1 1 Itl UJ
AN OLD MAN'S SONG ....
594
THE MUSIC-HALL ....
607
THE PASSIONATE READER TO HIS POET
594
BO!
607
EaUparU Uiplmg;
JHarp C. (9. ^Spron
DANNY DEEVER
595
r f*
** FUZZY-WUZZY "
595
(M. C. GlLLINQTON)
THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST
596
THE TRYST OF THE NIGHT .
607
THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS .
598
THE FAIRY THRALL . a i'" 5 .
. 608
THE LAW OF THE JUNGLE . . . ^
599
THE LAST CHANTEY . . . ".'" .
600
3ltcc . i^tlltncrton
Arthur &pmon0
THE SEVEN WHISTLERS ....
608
AT FONTAINEBLEAU . . . .
JAVANESE DANCERS .....
601
601
THE ROSY MUSK-MALLOW
THE DOOM-BAB
. 609
609
DURING Music <;":.
601
601
^oi'ci *^icrrrDon
Collie UatJforti
ALL SOULS' NIGHT ., ^ . J.
. 610
IF ALL THE WORLD ....
602
Pcrcp 3tUUlr0I)atu
602
MY LITTLE DEAR
602
("PEBCY HEMINGWAY")
A MODEL . . . -, , ,
OCTOBER v* .
602
603
THE HAPPY WANDERER . . .
TRAVELLERS . . , L .-
611
. 611
IT MAY BE
611
William Sutler Prats
(Dlttir Cuetancr
AN INDIAN SONQ ., .. ^. .
603
AN OLD SONG RESUNO ....
604
THE WAKING OF SPRING . '^; r;1v ;
. 611
THK ROSE OF THE WORLD . . .
604
612
THE WHITE BIRDS .
604
THE PARTING HOUR .
612
XXXV111
TABLE OF CONTENTS
IV. COLONIAL POETS
(INDIA AUSTRALASIA DOMINION OF CANADA)
INDIA
See TORU DUTT, RUDYARD KIPLING, in the preceding division of this Anthology. See also, in
the second division, SIR EDWIN ARNOLD, SIR ALFRED LYALL,/^J of English birth, and
sometime resident in India
HOW WE BEAT THE FAVORITE
THE SICK STOCK-RIDER .
VALEDICTORY
runton
THE DOMINION OF AUSTRALIA
617
619
621
621
FORBY SUTHERLAND . . . .622
]!)enrj> Clarence lienttall
To A MOUNTAIN ...... 624
COOGEE ...... 625
SEPTEMBER IN AUSTRALIA
THE LAST OF His TRIBE
THE VOICE IN THE WILD OAK
AUSTRALASIA
(See also: A. DOMETT, R. H. HORNE, W. SHARP, D. B. W. SLADEN)
JJercp Ktutfell
THE BIRTH OF AUSTRALIA . . .615
C&atlea J>aqmr fl^'P J* &mnett
A MIDSUMMER'S NOON IN THE Aus- THE SONG OF THE WlLD STORM-WAVES
TRALIAN FOREST 615
AN ABORIGINAL MOTHER'S LAMENT . 616
Bobert lotoe
(VISCOUNT SHEBBBOOKE)
SONG OF THE SQUATTER . . . .616
626
THE WAIF
Jrancea Cprrell <0tU
BENEATH THE WATTLE BOUGHS*
THE DIGGER'S GRAVE .
&tt|)ut JJatcfjett Jftartm
LOVE AND WAR .....
THE CYNIC OF THE WOODS .
Casttlla
AN AUSTRALIAN GIRL
(Eleanor
A NEW ZEALAND REGRET
ADIEU . ...
. 630
631
631
682
632
633
TABLE OF CONTENTS
XXXIX
DOMINION OF CANADA
Susanna &trirfelanfc jftoofcie
CANADIAN HUNTER'S SONO ... 633
. 634
635
637
C bavin* Catuoon
THE WALKER OF THE SNOW .
CbarlrG hcamwcje
SCENES FROM "SAUL"
TWILIGHT .....
FROM THE DRAMA OF " DE ROBERVAL " 638
BRAWN OF ENGLAND'S LAY ... 641
vTbavlrc iHatr
FROM " TECUMSEH : A DRAMA
.641
. logan
(" BARRY DANK ")
THE NOR'-WEST COURIER ... 643
A BLOOD-RED RING HUNG ROUND THE
MOON ....... 643
A DEAD SINGER . . . . .644
. 644
646
645
646
646
To A HUMMING BIRD IN A GARDEN
A LESSON OF MERCY ....
jFrefcericfc Cameron
THE GOLDEN TEXT
STANDING ON TIPTOE ....
WHAT MATTERS IT
Jaabella Balance? Cratoforto
THE CANOE ...... 646
THE AXE ....... 647
(Jultlltam SDouto ^rbiti'lcr Liffbt&all
THE CONFUSED DAWN .... 648
PR*TERITA EX INSTANTIBUS . . .648
THE BATTLE OF LA PRAIRIE . . 648
MONTREAL ..... .649
C&atlea <8. 3D. Bobette
f * . , ... .
.649
650
CANADA *,-
THE ISLES
BURNT LANDS
THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE . j . 600
THE NIGHT SKY ...... 661
THE DESERTED CITY . . . .651
AUTOCHTHON .- , .651
MARSYAS . JfttylB3 BfAnO! . ^
EPITAPH FOR A SAILOR BURIED ASHORK 652
THE KEEPERS OF THE PASS . . .652
THE BIRD'S SONG, THE SUN, AND THB
WIND . . . . . . . 663
AFOOT . . . . ^;j^.<i,i'i . . 663
DOMINE, CUI SUNT PLEIADES CuRAE . 663
William Wilfreft Campbell
To THE LAKES ...... 654
A CANADIAN FOLK-SONO ... 654
A LAKE MEMORY ..... 655
THE WERE- WOLVES .... 665
jFreUericfe
KNOWLEDGE ...... 656
TIME . . V *. . . . V 656
SAMSON ....... 656
VAN ELSEN ...... 657
AD MAJOREM DEI GLORIAM . 658
Uofacrtg
IN THE GOLDEN BIRCH .
Lampman
HEAT
BETWEEN THE RAPIDS . . .
A FORECAST
THE LOONS
THE CITY OF THE END OF THINGS.
-Bites Carman
. 660
661
. 661
MARIAN DRURY . . .
A SEA CHILD . . * .
GOLDEN ROWAN . .
SPRING SONG . . .
A MORE ANCIENT MARINER .
663
664
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A WlNDFLOWER .
THE MENDICANTS
SONG .
HACK AND HEW
ENVOY .
& Frances garrison
(" SKBANUS ")
CHATEAU PAPINEAU
SEPTEMBER
SDtmcan Campbell
ABOVE ST. IRENEE ...
A LITTLE SONG
AT LES EBOULEMENTS .
OTTAWA
AT THE CEDARS ...
IN NOVEMBER
THE REED-PLAYER . .
LIFE AND DEATH ..
THE END OF THE DAY .
665
665
666
666
666
667
668
668
670
670
671
671
filbert
SONNETS FROM "A LOVER'S DIARY
Love's Outset
A Woman's Hand ...
Art
Invincible
Envoy
<. Jhttline
THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS
AT HUSKING TIME
THE VAGABONDS
etr
SNOWSHOEING SONG
THE WIND OF DEATH .
THE HOUSE OF THE TREES
THE SNOW STORM
To FEBRUARY
671
672
672
673
673
673
674
674
674
675
675
676
676
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
INDEX OF FIRST LINES
INDEX OF TITLES ..
INDEX OF POETS
679
713
727
741
EARLY YEARS OF THE REIGN
(TRANSITION PERIOD)
CLOSE OF SOUTHEY'S LAUREATESHIP : 1837-43
LAUREATESHIP OF WORDSWORTH: 1843-50
Accession of Victoria R., June 20, z8jf
THE PASSING OF THE ELDER BARDS
FROM THE "EXTEMPORE EFFUSION UPON THE DEATH OF JAMES HOGG"
THE mighty Minstrel breathes no longer,
Mid mouldering- ruins low he lies ;
And death upon the braes of Yarrow
Has closed the Shepherd-poet's eyes :
Nor has the rolling- year twice measured,
From sign to sign, its steadfast course,
Since every mortal power of Coleridge
Was frozen at its marvellous source ;
The 'rapt One, of the godlike forehead,
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth :
And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle,
Has vanished from his lonely hearth.
Like clouds that rake the mountain-summits,
Or waves that own no curbing hand,
How fast has brother followed brother,
From sunshine to the sunless land !
Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber
Were earlier raised, remain to hear
A timid voice, that asks in whispers,
" Who next will drop and disappear ? "
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
November, 1835.
EARLY YEARS OF THE REIGN
(TRANSITION PERIOD)
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
IDaltcr
OVERTURE
FROM "THRASYMEDES AND EUNOE "
r HO will away to Athens with me ? who
>ves choral songs and maidens crown'd
with flowers,
Unenvious ? mount the pinnace ; hoist the
sail.
I promise ye, as many as are here,
Ye shall not, while ye tarry with me, taste
From unrins'd barrel the diluted wine
Of a low vineyard or a plant ill prun'd,
But such as anciently the ^Egeau isles
Pour'd in libation at their solemn feasts :
And the same goblets shall ye grasp,
emboss'd
With no vile figures of loose languid boors,
But such as gods have liv'd with and have
led.
THE HAMADRYAD
BHAICOS was born amid the hills where-
from
Gnidos the light of Caria is discerned,
And small are the white-crested that play
near,
And smaller onward are the purple waves.
Thence festal choirs were visible, all crown'd
With rose and myrtle if they were inborn ;
[f from Pandion sprang they, on the coast
Where stern Athene rais'd her citadel,
UanDor
Then olive was entwin'd with violets
Cluster'd in bosses, regular and large ;
For various men wore various coronals,
But one was their devotion ; 't was to her
Whose laws all follow, her whose smile
withdraws
The sword from Ares, thunderbolt from
Zeus,
And whom in his chill caves the mutable
Of mind, Poseidon, the sea-king, reveres,
And whom his brother, stubborn Dis, hath
pray'd
To turn in pity the averted cheek
Of her he bore away, with promises,
Nay, with loud oath before dread Styx it
self,
To give her daily more and sweeter flowers
Thau he made drop from her on Enna's dell.
Rhaicos was looking from his father's
door
At the long trains that hasten'd to the town
From all the valleys, like bright rivulets
Gurgling with gladness, wave outrunning
wave,
And thought it hard he might not also go
And offer up one prayer, and press one
hand,
He knew not whose. The father call'd him
in
And said, " Son Rhaicos 1 those are idle
games ;
Long enough I have liv'd to find them so."
And ere he ended, sigh'd ; as old men do
Always, to think how idle such games are.
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
" I have not yet," thought Rhaicos in his
heart,
And wanted proof.
" Suppose thou go and help
Echion at the hill, to bark yon oak
And lop its branches off, before we delve
About the trunk and ply the root with axe :
This we may do in winter."
Rhaicos went ;
For thence he could see farther, and see
more
Of those who hurried to the city-gate.
Echion he found there, with naked arm
Swart-hair'd, strong-sinew'd, and his eyes
intent
Upon the place where first the axe should
fall:
He held it upright. " There are bees about,
Or wasps, or hornets," said the cautious eld,
" Look sharp, O son of Thallinos ! " The
youth
Inclin'd his ear, afar, and warily,
And cavern'd in his hand. He heard a buzz
At first, and then the sound grew soft and
clear,
And then divided into what seem'd tune,
And there were words upon it, plaintive
words.
He turn'd, and said, " Echion ! do not strike
That tree : it must be hollow ; for some
god
Speaks from within. Come thyself near."
Again
Both turn'd toward it : and behold ! there
sat
Upon the moss below, with her two palms
Pressing it, on each side, a maid in form.
Downcast were her long eyelashes, and pale
Her cheek, but never mountain-ash display'd
Berries of color like her lip so pure,
Nor were the anemones about her hair
Soft, smooth, and wavering like the face
beneath.
" What dost thou here ? " Echion, half-
afraid,
Half-angry, cried. She lifted up her eyes,
But nothing spake she. Rhaicos drew one
step
Backward, for fear came likewise over him,
But not such fear : he panted, gasp'd, drew
in
His breath, and would have turn'd it into
words,
But could not into one.
" O send away
That sad old man ! " said she. The old man
went
Without a warning from his master's son,
Glad to escape, for sorely he now fear'd,
And the axe shone behind him in their eyes.
Hamad. And wouldst thou too shed the
most innocent
Of blood ? No vow demands it ; no god
wills
The oak to bleed.
Rhaicos. Who art thou ? whence ? why
here ?
And whither wouldst thou go ? Among: the
rob'd
In white or saffron, or the hue that most
Resembles dawn or the clear sky, is none
Array'd as thou art. What so beautiful
As that gray robe which clings about thee
close,
Like moss to stones adhering, leaves to
trees,
Yet lets thy bosom rise and fall in turn,
As, touch'd by zephyrs, fall and rise the
boughs
Of graceful platan by the river-side ?
Hamad. Lovest thou well thy father's
house ?
Rhaicos. Indeed
I love it, well I love it, yet would leave
For thine, where'er it be, my father's house,
With all the marks upon the door, that show
My growth at every birthday since the third,
And all the charms, o'erpowering evil eyes,
My mother nail'd for me against my bed,
And the Cydonian bow (which thou shalt
see)
Won in my race last spring from Eutychos.
Hamad. Bethink thee what it is to leave
a home
Thou never yet hast left, one night, one day.
Rhaicos. No, 't is not hard to leave it :
't is not hard
To leave, O maiden, that paternal home
If there be one on earth whom we may love
First, last, for ever ; one who says that she
Will love for ever too. To say which word,
Only to say it, surely is enough.
It shows such kindness if 't were possible
We at the moment think she would indeed.
Hamad. Who taught thee all this folly at
thy age ?
Rhaicos. I have seen lovers and have
learn'd to love.
Hamad. But wilt thou spare the tree ?
Rhaicos. My father wants
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
The bark ; the tree may hold its place awhile.
Hamad. Awhile ? thy father numbers
then my days ?
Rhaicos. Are there no others where the
moss beneath
Is quite as tufty ? Who would send thee
forth
Or ask thee why thou tarriest ? Is thy flock
Anywhere near?
Hamad. I have no flock : I kill
Nothing that breathes, that stirs, that feels
the air,
The sun, the dew. Why should the beauti
ful
(And thou art beautiful) disturb the source
Whence springs all beauty ? Hast thou
never heard
Of Hamadryads ?
Rhaicos. Heard of them I have :
Tell me some tale about them. May I sit
Beside thy feet ? Art thou not tired ? The
herbs
Are very soft ; I will not come too nigh ;
Do but sit there, nor tremble so, nor doubt.
Stay, stay an instant : let me first explore
If any acorn of last year be left
Within it ; thy thin robe too ill protects
Thy dainty limbs against the harm one small
Acorn may do. Here 's none. ,A no ther day
Trust me ; till then let me sit opposite.
Hamad. I seat me ; be thou seated, and
content.
Rhaicos. O sight for gods ! ye men be
low ! adore
The Aphrodite ! Is she there below ?
Or sits she here before me? as she sate
Before the shepherd on those heights that
shade
The Hellespont, and brought his kindred
woe.
Hamad. Reverence the higher Powers ;
nor deem amiss
Of her who pleads to thee, and would re-
p ft y
A.sk not how much but very much. Rise
not :
No, Rhaicos, no ! Without the nuptial vow
Love is unholy. Swear to me that none
Of mortal maids shall ever taste thy kiss,
Then take thou mine ; then take it, not
before.
Rhaicos. Hearken, all gods above ! O
Aphrodite !
Here ! Let my vow be ratified !
But wilt thou come into my father's house?
Hamad. Nay : and of mine I cannot give
thee part.
Rhaicos. Where is it ?
Hamad. In this oak.
Rhaicos. Ay ; now begins
The tale of Hamadryad : tell it through.
Hamad. Pray of thy father never to cut
down
My tree ; and promise him, as well thou
mayst,
That every year he shall receive from me
More honey than will buy him nine fat sheep,
More wax than he will burn to all the gods.
Why fallest thou upon thy face ? home
thorn
May scratch it, rash young man ! Rise up ;
for shame !
Rhaicos. For shame I cannot rise. O pity
me !
I dare not sue for love but do not hate !
Let me once more behold thee not once
more,
But many days : let me love on unlov'd !
I aim'd too high : on my own head the bolt
Falls back, and pierces to the very brain.
Hamad. Go rather go, than make me
say I love.
Rhaicos. If happiness is immortality,
(And whence enjoy it else the gods above ?)
I am immortal too : my vow is heard
Hark ! on the left Nay, turn not from me
now,
I claim my kiss.
Hamad. Do men take first, then claim ?
Do thus the seasons run their course with
them?
Her lips were seal'd ; her head sank on
his breast.
'T is said that laughs were heard within the
wood :
But who should hear them? and whose
laughs ? and why ?
Savory was the smell and long past noon,
Thallinos ! in thy house ; for marjoram,
Basil and mint, and thyme and rosemary,
Were sprinkled on the kid's well roasted
length,
Awaiting Rhaicos. Home he came at last,
Not hungry, but pretending hunger keen,
With head and eyes just o'er the maple
plate.
"Thou see'stbut badly, coming from the
sun,
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
Boy Rhaicos!" said the father. "That
oak's bark
Must have been tough, with little sap be
tween ;
It ought to run ; but it and I are old."
Rhaicos, although each morsel of the bread
Increas'd by chewing, and the meat grew
cold
And tasteless to his palate, took a draught
Of gold-bright wine, which, thirsty as he
was,
He thought not of, until his father filPd
The cup, averring water was amiss,
But wine had been at all times pour'd on kid.
It was religion.
He thus fortified
Said, not quite boldly, and not quite abash'd,
" Father, that oak is Zeus's own ; that oak
Year after year will bring thee wealth from
wax
And honey. There is one who fears the
And the gods love that one "
(He blush'd, nor said
What one)
" Has promis'd this, and may do more.
Thou hast not many moons to wait until
The bees have done their best ; if then
there come
Nor wax nor honey, let the tree be hewn."
" Zeus hath bestow'd on thee a prudent
mind,"
Said the glad sire : " but look thou often
there,
And gather all the honey thou canst find
In every crevice, over and above
What has been promis'd ; would they reckon
that?"
Rhaicos went daily ; but the nymph as oft,
Invisible. To play at love, she knew,
Stopping its breathings when it breathes
most soft,
Is sweeter than to play on any pipe.
She play'd on his : she fed upon his sighs ;
They pleas'd her when they gently wav'd
her hair,
Cooling the pulses of her purple veins,
And when her absence brought them out,
they pleas'd.
Even among the fondest of them all,
What mortal or immortal maid is more
Content with giving happiness than pain ?
One day he was returning from the wood
Despondently. She pitied him, and said
" Come back ! " and twin'd her fingers in
the hem
Above his shoulder. Then she led his steps
To a cool rill that ran o'er level sand
Through lentiskand through oleander; there
Bath'd she his feet, lifting them on her lap
When bath'd, and drying them in both her
hands.
He dar'd complain ; for those who most are
lov'd
Most dare it ; but not harsh was his com
plaint.
" O thou inconstant ! " said he, " if stern law
Bind thee, or will, stronger than sternest
law,
O, let me know henceforward when to hope
The fruit of love that grows for me but
here."
He spake ; and pluck'd it from its pliant
stem.
" Impatient Rhaicos ! Why thus intercept
The answer I would give ? There is a bee
Whom I have fed, a bee who knows my
thoughts
And executes my wishes : I will send
That messenger. If ever thou art false,
Drawn by another, own it not, but drive
My bee away : then shall I know my fate,
And for thou must be wretched weep
at thine.
But often as my heart persuades to lay
Its cares on thine and throb itself to rest,
Expect her with thee, whether it be morn
Or eve, at any time when woods are safe."
Day after day the Hours beheld them
blest,
And season after season : years had past,
Blest were they still. He who asserts that
Love
Ever is sated of sweet things, the same
Sweet things he fretted for in earlier days,
Never, by Zeus ! lov'd he a Hamadryad.
The nights had now grown longer, and
perhaps
The Hamadryads find them lone and dull
Among their woods ; one did, alas ! She
call'd
Her faithful bee : 't was when all bees
should sleep,
.And all did sleep but hers. She was sent
forth
To bring that light which never wintry blast
Blows out, nor rain nor snow extinguishes,
The light that shines from loving eyes upon
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
Eyes that love back, till they can see no
more.
Rhaicos was sitting at his father's hearth :
Between them stood the table, not o'er-
spread
With fruits which autumn now profusely
bore,
Nor anise cakes, nor odorous wine ; but
there
The draft-board was expanded ; at which
game
Triumphant sat old Thallinos ; the son
Was puzzled, vex'd, discomfited, distraught.
A buzz was at his ear : up went his hand
And it was heard no longer. The poor bee
Return'd (but not until the morn shone
bright)
And found the Hamadryad with her head
Upon her aching wrist, and show'd one wing
Half-broken off, the other's meshes marr'd,
And there were bruises which no eye could
see
Saving a Hamadryad's.
At this sight
Down fell the languid brow, both hands fell
down,
A shriek w'as carried to the ancient hall
Of Thallinos : he heard it not : his son
Heard it, and ran forthwith into the wood.
No bark was on the tree, no leaf was green,
The trunk was riven through. From that
day forth
Nor word nor whisper sooth'd his ear, nor
sound
Even of insect wing ; but loud laments
The woodmen and the shepherds one long
year
Heard day and night ; for Rhaicos would
not quit
The solitary place, but moan'd and died.
Hence milk and honey wonder not, O guest,
To find set duly on the hollow stone.
THE DEATH OF ARTEMIDORA
" ARTEMIDORA ! Gods invisible,
While thou art lying faint along the couch,
Have tied the sandal to thy veined feet,
And stand beside thee, ready to convey
Thy weary steps where other rivers flow.
Refreshing shades will waft thy weariness
Away, and voices like thine own c.ome nigh,
Soliciting, nor vainly, thy embrace."
Artemidora sigh 'd, and would have press'd
The hand now pressing hers, but was too
weak.
Fate's shears were over her dark hair un
seen
While thus Elpcnor spake : he look'd into
Eyes that had given light and life erewhile
To those above them, those now dim with
tears
And watchfulness. Again he spake of joy,
Eternal. At that word, that sad word, joy,
Faithful and fond her bosom heav'd once
more,
Her head fell back : one sob, one loud deep
sob
Swell'd through the darken'd chamber ;
't was not hers :
With her that old boat incorruptible,
Unwearied, undiverted in its course,
Had plash'd the water up the farther strand.
FROM "MYRTIS"
FRIENDS, whom she look'd at blandly from
her couch
And her white wrist above it, gem-bedew'd,
Were arguing with Pentheusa : she had
heard
Report of Creon's death, whom years before
She listeu'd to, well-pleas'd ; and sighs
arose ;
For sighs full often fondle with reproofs
And will be fondled by them. When I
came
After the rest to visit her, she said,
" Myrtis ! how kind ! Who better knows
than thou
The panes of love ? and my first love was
h?!"
Tell me (if ever, Eros ! are re veal 'd
Thy secrets to the earth) have they been
true
To any love who speak about the first ?
What 1 shall these holier lights, like twin
kling stars
In the few hours assign'd them, change
their place,
And, when comes ampler splendor, disap
pear ?
Idler I am, and pardon, not reply,
Implore from thee, thus question'd ; well
I know
Thou strikest, like Olympian Jove, but
once.
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
LITTLE AGLAE
TO HER FATHER, ON HER STATUE BEING
CALLED LIKE 'HER
FATHER ! the little girl we see
Is not, I fancy, so like me ;
You never hold her on your knee.
When she came home, the other day,
You kiss'd her ; but I cannot say
She kiss'd you first and ran away.
TO A CYCLAMEN
f COME to visit thee agen,
My little flowerless cyclamen ;
To touch the hand, almost to press,
That cheer'd thee in thy loneliness.
What could thy careful guardian find
Of thee in form, of me in mind,
What is there in us rich or rare,
To make us claim a moment's care ?
Unworthy to be so carest,
We are but withering leaves at best.
DIRCE
STAND close around, ye Stygian set,
With Dirce in one boat convey'd,
Or Charon, seeing, may forget
That he is old, and she a shade.
AN INVOCATION
WE are what suns and winds and waters
make us ;
The mountains are our sponsors, and the
rills
Fashion and win their nursling with their
smiles.
But where the land is dim from tyranny,
There tiny pleasures occupy the place
Of glories and of duties ; as the feet
Of fabled faeries when the sun goes down
Trip o'er the grass where wrestlers strove
by day.
Then Justice, call'd the Eternal One above,
Is more inconstant than the buoyant form
That burst into existence from the froth
Of ever-varying ocean : what is best
Then becomes worst ; what loveliest, most
deform'd.
The heart is hardest in the softest climes,
The passions flourish, the affections die.
O thou vast tablet of these awful truths,
That fillest all the space between the seas,
Spreading from Venice's deserted courts
To the Tarentine and Hydruntine mole,
What lifts thee up ? what shakes thee ? 'tis
the breath
Of God. Awake, ye nations ! spring to life !
Let the last work of his right hand appear
Fresh with his image, Man.
FROM "GEBIR"
TAMAR AND THE NYMPH
" 'T WAS evening, though not sunset, and
the tide,
Level with these green meadows, seem'd
yet higher :
'Twas pleasant, and I loosen'd from my
neck
The pipe you gave me, and began to play.
that I ne'er had learn'd the tuneful
art !
It always brings us enemies or love.
Well, I was playing, when above the waves
Some swimmer's head methought I saw
ascend ;
I, sitting still, survey'd it with my pipe
Awkwardly held before my lips half-clos'd.
Gebir ! it was a Nymph ! a Nymph divine J
1 cannot wait describing how she came,
How I was sitting, how she first assum'd
The sailor ; of what happen 'd there remains
Enough to say, and too much to forget.
The sweet deceiver stepp'd upon this bank
Before I was aware ; for with surprise
Moments fly rapid as with love itself.
Stooping to tune afresh the hoarsen'd reed,
I heard a rustling, and where that arose
My glance first lighted on her nimble feet.
Her feet resembled those long shells ex-
plor'd
By him who to befriend his steed's dim sight
Would blow the pungent powder in the eye.
Her eyes too ! O immortal gods ! her eyes
Resembled what could they resemble ?
what
Ever resemble those ? Even her attire
Was not of wonted woof nor vulgar art :
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
Her mantle show'd the yellow samphire-
pod,
Her girdle the dove-color'd wave serene.
' Shepherd,' said she, * and will you wrestle
now
And with the sailor's hardier race engage ? '
I was rejoiced to hear it, and contriv'd
How to keep up contention : could I fail
By pressing not too strongly, yet to press ?
' Whether a shepherd, as indeed you seem,
Or whether of the hardier race you boast,
I am not daunted ; no ; I will engage.'
But first,' said she, ' what wager will you
lay?'
< A sheep,' I answered : add whate'er you
will.'
* I cannot,' she replied, ' make that return :
Our hided vessels in their pitchy round
Seldom, unless from rapine, hold a sheep.
But I have sinuous shells of pearly hue
Within, and they that lustre have imbib'd
In the sun's palace-porch, where when un-
yok'd
His chariot-wheel stands midway in the
wave :
Shake one and it awakens, then apply
Its polish'd lips to your attentive ear,
And it remembers its august abodes,
And murmurs as the ocean murmurs there.
And I have others given me by the nymphs,
Of sweeter sound than any pipe you have :
But we, by Neptune ! for no pipe contend ;
This time a sheep I win, a pipe the next.'
Now came she forward eager to engage,
But first her dress, her bosom then survey'd
And heav'd it, doubting if she could deceive.
Her bosom seem'd, inclos'd in haze like
heaven,
To baffle touch, and rose forth undefin'd ;
Above her knee she drew the robe succinct,
Above her breast, and just below her arms.
1 This will preserve my breath when tightly
bound,
If struggle and equal strength should so
constrain.'
Thus, pulling hard to fasten it, she spake,
And, rushing at me, clos'd : I thrill'd
throughout
And seem'd to lessen and shrink up with
cold.
Again with violent impulse gush'd my blood,
And hearing nought external, thus absorb'd,
I heard it, rushing through each turbid vein,
Shake my unsteady swimming sight in air.
Yet with unyielding though uncertain arms
I clung around her neck ; the vest beneath
Rustled against our slippery limbs entwin'd:
Often mine springing with eluded force
Started aside and trembled till replaced :
And when I most succeeded, as I thought,
My bosom and my throat felt so compress'd
That life was almost quivering on my lips.
Yet nothing was there painful : these are
signs
Of secret arts and not of human might ;
What arts I cannot tell ; I only know
My eyes grew dizzy and my strength
decay'd ;
I was indeed o'ercome with what regret,
And more, with what confusion, when I
reach'd
The fold, and yielding up the sheep, she
cried,
' This pays a shepherd to a conquering
maid.'
She smil'd, and more of pleasure than dis
dain
Was in her dimpled chin and liberal lip,
And eyes that languished, lengthening, just
like love.
She went away ; I on the wicker gate
Leant, and could follow with my eyet
alone
The sheep she carried easy as a cloak ;
But when I heard its bleating, as I did,
And saw, she hastening on, its hinder feet
Struggle, and from her snowy shoulder slip,
One shoulder its poor efforts had unveil'd,
Then all my passions mingling fell in tears ;
Restless then ran I to the highest ground
To watch her ; she was gone ; gone down
the tide ;
And the long moonbeam on the hard wet
sand
Lay like a jasper column half uprear'd."
TO YOUTH
WHERE art thou gone, light-ankled Youth ?
With wing at either shoulder,
And smile that never left thy mouth
Until the Hours grew colder :
Then somewhat seem'd to whisper near
That thou and I must part ;
I doubted it ; I felt no fear,
No weight upon the heart.
10
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
If aught befell it, Love was by
And roll'd it off again ;
So, if there ever was a sigh,
'T was not a sigh of pain.
I may not call thee back ; but thou
Returnest when the hand
Of gentle Sleep waves o'er my brow
His poppy-crested wand ;
Then smiling eyes bend over mine,
Then lips once press'd invite ;
But sleep hath given a silent sign,
And both, alas ! take flight.
TO AGE
WELCOME, old friend ! These many years
Have we liv'd door by door :
The Fates have laid aside their shears
Perhaps for some few more.
I was indocile at an age
When better boys were taught,
But thou at length hast made me sage,
If I am sage in aught.
Little I know from other men,
Too little they from me,
But thou hast pointed well the pen
That writes these lines to thee.
Thanks for. expelling Fear and Hope,
One vile, the other vain ;
One's scourge, the other's telescope,
I shall not see again :
Rather what lies before my feet
My notice shall engage.
He who hath brav'd Youth's dizzy heat
Dreads not the frost of Age.
ROSE AYLMER
AH what avails the sceptred race,
Ah what the form divine !
What every virtue, every grace !
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
ROSE AYLMER'S HAIR, GIVEN
BY HER SISTER
BEAUTIFUL spoils ! borne off from van-
quish'd death !
Upon my heart's high altar shall ye lie,
Mov'd but by only one adorer's breath,
Retaining youth, rewarding constancy.
CHILD OF A DAY
CHILD of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thine urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return.
And why the wish ! the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep.
O peaceful night ! O envied rest !
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
FIESOLAN IDYL
HERE, where precipitate Spring with one
light bound
Into hot Summer's lusty arms expires,
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at
night,
Soft airs that want the lute to play with 'em,
And softer sighs that know not what they
want,
Aside a wall, beneath an orange-tree,
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier
ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seem'd to show me with their
nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing
shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gather'd the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stepp'd
forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
Such I believ'd it must be. How could I
Let beast o'erpower them ? when hath wind
or rain
Borne hard upon weak plant that wanted
me,
And I (however they might bluster round)
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
ii
Walk'd off ? 'T were most ungrateful : for
sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter
thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best
stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of
love,
\nd ? t is and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die
(Whene'er their Genius bids their souls
depart)
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose ; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproach'd me ; the ever-sacred
cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy ; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Wann'd by the eye intent on its pursuit ;
I saw the foot that, although half-erect
From its gray slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted : I held down a branch
And gather'd her some blossoms ; since
their hour
Was come, and bees had wounded them,
and flies
Of harder wing were working their way
through
And scattering them in fragments under
foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolv'd,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen through, by eye or
sun :
Yet every one her gown receiv'd from me
Was fairer than the first. I thought not so,
But so she prais'd them to reward my care.
I said, " You find the largest."
" This indeed,"
Cried she, " is large and sweet." She held
one forth,
Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I ; but taking it
Would best have solv'd (and this she felt)
her doubt.
I dar'd not touch it ; for it seem'd a part
Of her own self ; fresh, full, the most
mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom ; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen. She drew back
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropp'd it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.
FAREWELL TO ITALY
I LEAVE thee, beauteous Italy ! no more
From the high terraces, at even-tide,
To look supine into thy depths of sky,
Thy golden moon between the cliff and me,
Or thy dark spires of fretted cypresses
Bordering the channel of the milky way.
Fiesole and Valdarno must be dreams
Hereafter, and my own lost Affrico
Murmur to me but in the poet's song.
I did believe (what have I not believ'd?),
Weary with age, but unoppress'd by pain,
To close in thy soft clime my quiet day
And rest my bones in the mimosa's shade.
Hope ! Hope ! few ever cherish'd thee so
little ;
Few are the heads thou hast so rarely rais'd ;
But thou didst promise this, and all was
well.
For we are fond of thinking where to lie
When every pulse hath ceas'd, when the
lone heart
Can lift no aspiration reasoning
As if the sight were unimpair'd by death,
Were unobstructed by the coffin-lid,
And the sun cheer'd corruption ! Over all
The smiles of Nature shed a potent charm,
And light us to our chamber at the grave.
THE MAID'S LAMENT
ELIZABETHAN
I LOV'D him not ; and yet now he is gone
I feel I am alone.
I check'd him while he spoke ; yet could
he speak,
Alas ! I would not check.
For reasons not to love him once I sought,
And wearied all my thought
To vex myself and him : I now would give
My love, could he but live
Who lately liv'd for me, and when he found
'T was vain, in holy ground
He hid his face amid the shades of death,
I waste for him my breath
12
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
Who wasted his for me ; but mine returns,
And this lone bosom burns
With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep
And waking me to weep
Tears that had melted his soft heart : for
years
Wept he as bitter tears.
Merciful God ! such was his latest prayer,
These may she never share !
Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold,
Than daisies in the mould,
Where children spell, athwart the church
yard gate,
His name and life's brief date.
Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er you be,
And oh ! pray too for me !
MARGARET
MOTHER, I cannot mind my wheel ;
My fingers ache, my lips are dry ;'
Oh, if you felt the pain I feel !
But oh, who ever felt as I !
No longer could I doubt him true,
All other men may use deceit ;
He always said my eyes were blue,
And often swore my lips were sweet.
ON MUSIC
MANY love music but for music's sake ;
Many because her touches can awake
Thoughts that repose within the breast half
dead,
And rise to follow where she loves to lead.
What various feelings come from days
gone by !
What tears from far-off sources dim the
eye !
Few, when light fingers with sweet voices
And melodies swell, pause, and melt
away,
Mind how at every touch, at every tone,
A spark of life hath glisten'd and hath gone.
PLAYS
ALAS, how soon the hours are over
Counted us out to play the lover !
And how much narrower is the stage
Allotted us to play the sage 1
But when we play the fool, how wide
The theatre expands ! beside,
How long the audience sits before us !
How many prompters ! what a chorus !
THERE FALLS WITH EVERY
WEDDING CHIME
THERE falls with every wedding chime
A feather from the wing of Time.
You pick it up, and say " How fair
To look upon its colors are ! "
Another drops day after day
Unheeded ; not one word you say.
When bright and dusky are blown past,
Upon the hearse there nods the last.
SHAKESPEARE AND MILTON
THE tongue of England, that which myriads
Have spoken and will speak, were paralyz'd
Hereafter, but two mighty men stand
forth
Above the flight of ages, two alone ;
One crying out,
All nations spoke through me.
The other :
True and through this trumpet burst
God's word ; the fall of Angels, and the
doom
First of immortal, then of mortal, Man.
Glory ! be glory ! not to me, to God.
MACAULAY
THE dreamy rhymer's measur'd snore
Falls heavy on our ears no more ;
And by long strides are left behind
The dear delights of woman-kind,
Who win their battles like their loves,
In satin waistcoats and kid gloves,
And have achiev'd the crowning work
When they have truss'd and skewer'd a
Turk.
Another comes with stouter tread,
And stalks among the statelier dead.
He rushes on, and hails by turns
High-crested Scott, broad-breasted Burns,
And shows the British youth, who ne'er
Will lag behind, what Romans were,
When all the Tuscans and their Lars
Shouted, and shook the towers of Mars.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
ROBERT BROWNING
THERE is delight in singing, though none
hear
Beside the singer ; and there is delight
In praising, though the praiser sit alone
And see the prais'd far off him, far ahove.
Shakspeare is not our poet, but the world's,
Therefore on him no speech ! and brief for
thee,
Browning ! Since Chaucer was alive and
hale,
No man hath walk'd along our roads with
step
So active, so inquiring eye, or tongue
So varied in discourse. But warmer climes
Give brighter plumage, stronger wing : the
breeze
Of Alpine heights thou playest with, borne
on
Beyond Sorrento and Amalfi, where
The Siren waits thee, singing song for song.
ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI
AND, HIS WIFE MARGARET
FULLER
OVER his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli ! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restor'd,
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the
surge
Of the Atlantic ; on its. shore ; in reach
Of help ; in trust of refuge ; sunk with
all
Precious on earth to thee ... a child, a
wife!
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous
breast.
She would not leave behind her those she
lov'd :
Such solitary safety might become
Others ; not her ; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assaiFd the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renown'd for strength of genius, Margaret !
Rest with the twain too dear ! My words
are few,
And shortly none will hear my failing voice,
But the same language with more full ap
peal
Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song
Whom thou hast heard upon thy native
plains
Worthy to sing of thee : the hour is come ;
Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.
TO IANTHE
You smil'd, you spoke, and I believ'd,
By every word and smile deceiv'd.
Another man would hope no more ;
Nor hope I what I hop'd before :
But let not this last wish be vain ;
Deceive, deceive me once again i
'"'". lANTHE'S TROUBLES
YOUR pleasures spring like daisies in the
grass,
Cut down and up again as blithe as
ever ;
From you, lanthe, little troubles pass
Like little ripples in a sunny river.
THE APPEAL
REMAIN, ah not in youth alone,
Though youth, where you are, long will
stay,
But when my summer days are gone,
And my autumnal haste away.
" Can I be always by your side ? "
No ; but the hours you can, you must,
Nor rise at Death's approaching stride,
Nor go when dust is gone to dust.
THE TEST
I HELD her hand, the pledge of bliss,
Her hand that trembled and withdrew ;
She -bent her head before my kiss . . .
My heart was sure that hers was true.
Now I have told her I must part,
She shakes my hand, she bids adieu,
Nor shuns the kiss. Alas, my heart I
Hers never was the heart for you.
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
IN AFTER TIME
No, my own love of other years !
No, it must never be.
Much rests with you that yet endears,
Alas ! but what with me ?
Could those bright years o'er me revolve
So gay, o'er you so fair,
The pearl of life we would dissolve
And each the cup might share.
You show that truth can ne'er decay,
Whatever fate befalls ;
I, that the myrtle and the bay
Shoot fresh on ruin'd walls.
A PROPHECY
PROUD word you never spoke, but you will
speak
Four not exempt from pride some future
day.
Resting on one white hand a warm wet
cheek,
Over my open volume you will say,
"This nran loved me!" then rise and
trip away.
COWSLIPS
WITH rosy hand a little girl press'd down
A boss of fresh-cull'd cowslips in a rill :
Often as they sprang up again, a frown
Show'd she dislik'd resistance to her will :
But when they droop'd their heads and
shone much less,
She shook them to and fro, and threw them
by,
And tripp'd away. " Ye loathe the heavi
ness
Ye love to cause, my little girls ! " thought I,
"And what has shone for you, by you must
die!"
WRINKLES
WHEN Helen first saw wrinkles in her-face
('Twas when some fifty long had settled
there
And intermarried and branch'd off awide)
She threw herself upon her couch and wept :
On this side hung her head, and over that
Listlessly she let fall the faithless brass
That made the men as faithless.
But when you
Found them, or fancied them, and would
not hear
That they were only vestiges of smiles,
Or the impression of some amorous hair
Astray from cloister'd curls and roseate
band,
Which had been lying there all night per
haps
Upon a skin so soft, " No, no," you said,
" Sure, they are coming, yes, are come, are
here :
Well, and what matters it, while thou art
too ! "
ADVICE
To write as your sweet mother does
Is all you wish to do.
Play, sing, and smile for others, Rose !
Let others write for you.
Or mount again your Dartmoor grey,
And I will walk beside,
Until we reach that quiet bay .
Which only hears the tide.
Then wave at me your pencil, then
At distance bid me stand,
Before the cavern'd cliff, again
The creature of your hand.
And bid me then go past the nook
To sketch me less in size ;
There are but few content to look
So little in your eyes.
Delight us with the gifts you have,
And wish for none beyond :
To some be gay, to some be grave,
To one (blest youth !) be fond.
Pleasures there are how close to Pain,
And better unpossest !
Let poetry's too throbbing vein
Lie quiet in your breast.
HOW TO READ ME
To turn my volumes o'er nor find
(Sweet unsuspicious friend !)
Some vestige of an erring mind
To chide or discommend,
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
Believe that all were lov'd like you
With love from blame exempt,
Believe that all my griefs were true
And all my joys but dreamt.
TIME TO BE WISE
YES ; I write verses now and then,
But blunt and flaccid is my pen,
No longer talk'd of by young men
As rather clever ;
In the last quarter are my eyes,
You see it by their form and size ;
Is it not time then to be wise ?
Or now or never.
Fairest that ever sprang from Eve !
While Time allows the short reprieve,
Just look at me ! would you believe
'T was once a lover ?
I cannot clear the five-bar gate ;
But, trying first its timber's state,
Climb stiffly up, take breath, and wait
To trundle over.
Through gallopade I cannot swing
The entangling blooms of Beauty's spring
I cannot say the tender thing,
Be 't true or false,
And am beginning to opine
Those girls are only half divine
Whose waists yon wicked boys entwine
In giddy waltz.
I fear that arm above that shoulder ;
I wish them wiser, graver, older,
Sedater, and no harm if colder,
And panting less.
Ah ! people were not half so wild
In former days, when, starchly mild,
Upon her high-heel'd Essex smil'd
The brave Queen Bess.
THE ONE WHITE HAIR
THE wisest of the wise
Listen to pretty lies
And love to hear them told ;
Doubt not that Solomon
Listen'd to many a one,
Some in his youth, and more when he grew
old.
I never was among
The choir of Wisdom's song,
But pretty lies lov'd I
As much as any king,
When youth was on the wing,
And (must it then be told ?) when youth
had quite gone by.
Alas ! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot
When one pert lady said,
" O Walter ! I am quite
Bewilder'd with affright !
I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your
head!"
Another more benign
Snipp'd it away from mine,
And in her own dark hair
Pretended it was found . . .
She leap'd, and twirl'd it round . . .
Fair as she was, she never was so fair !
ON HIMSELF
I STROVE with none, for none was worth my
strife ;
Nature I lov'd, and next to Nature, Art ;
I warm'd both hands before the fire of
life;
It sinks, and I am ready to depart.
ON LUCRETIA BORGIA'S HAIR
BORGIA, thou once wert almost too august
And high for adoration ; now thou 'rt
dust;
All that remains of thee these plaits un
fold,
Calm hair meandering in pellucid gold.
PERSISTENCE
MX hopes retire ; my wishes as before
Struggle to find their resting-place in
vain :
The ebbing sea thus beats against the
shore ;
The shore repels it ; it returns again.
i6
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
MAN
IN his own image the Creator made,
His own pure sunbeam quicken'd thee, O
man !
Thou breathing dial ! since thy day began
The present hour was ever inark'd with
shade !
TO SLEEP
COME, Sleep ! but mind ye ! if you come
without
The little girl that struck me at the rout,
By Jove ! I would not give you half-a-crown
For all your poppy-heads and all your down.
ON LIVING TOO LONG
Is it not better at an early hour
In its calm cell to rest the weary head,
While birds are singing and while blooms
the bower,
Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed?
A THOUGHT
BLYTHE bell, that calls to bridal halls,
Tolls deep a darker day ;
The very shower that feeds the flower
Weeps also its decay.
HEARTSEASE
THERE is a flower I wish to wear,
But not until first worn by you
Heartsease of all earth's flowers most
rare ;
Bring it ; and bring enough for two.
VERSES WHY BURNT
How many verses have I thrown
Into the fire because the one
Peculiar word, the wanted most,
Was irrecoverably lost !
DEATH UNDREADED
DEATH stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear :
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.
MEMORY
THE Mother of the Muses, we are taught,
Is Memory : she has left me ; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
Alas ! alas I is all I can reply.
Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may
sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, call'd or
uncall'd.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday ;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad counte
nance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye ;
To these, when I have written and besought
Remembrance of me, the word Dear alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in
vain.
A blessing wert thou, O oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.
FOR AN EPITAPH AT FIESOLE
Lo ! where the four mimosas blend their
shade
In calm repose at last is Landor laid ;
For ere he slept he saw them planted
here
By her his soul had ever held most dear,
And he had liv'd enough when he had
dried her tear.
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
<5corgc SDariep
THE FLOWER OF BEAUTY
SWEET in her green dell the flower of
beauty slumbers,
LulFd by the faint breezes sighing
through her hair ;
Sleeps she, and hears not the melancholy
numbers
Breath'd to my sad lute amid the lonely
air.
Down from the high cliffs the rivulet is
teeming,
To wind round the willow-banks that lure
him from above ;
that, in tears from my rocky prison
streaming,
I, too, could glide to the bower of my love !
Ah, where the woodbines with sleepy arms
have wound her,
Opes she her eyelids at the dream of my
lay,
Listening, like the dove, while the fountains
echo round her,
To her lost mate's call in the forests far
away.
Come, then, my bird ! for the peace thou
ever bearest,
Still Heaven's messenger of comfort to
me ;
Come ! this fond bosom, my faithfullest,
my fairest,
Bleeds with its death- wound - but deeper
yet for thee.
SUMMER WINDS
UP the dale and down the bourne,
O'er the meadow swift we fly ;
Now we sing, and now we mourn,
Now we whistle, now we sigh.
By the grassy-fringed river
Through the murmuring reeds we sweep,
Mid the lily-leaves we quiver,
To their very hearts we creep.
Now the maiden rose is blushing
At the frolic things we say,
While aside her cheek we f re rushing,
Like some truant bees at play.
Through the blooming groves we rustle,
Kissing every bud we pass,
As we did it in the bustle,
Scarcely knowing how it was.
Down the glen, across the mountain,
O'er the yellow heath we roam,
Whirling round about the fountain
Till its little breakers foam.
Bending down the weeping willows,
While our vesper hymn we sigh ;
Then unto our rosy pillows
On our weary wings we hie.
There of idlenesses dreaming,
Scarce from waking we refrain,
Moments long as ages deeming
Till we 're at our play again.
SONGS FROM "SYLVIA; OR, THE
MAY QUEEN"
CHORUS OF SPIRITS
GENTLY ! gently ! down ! down !
From the starry courts on high,
Gently step adown, down
The ladder of the sky.
Sunbeam steps are strong enough
For such airy feet :
Spirits, blow your trumpets rough,
So as they be sweet !
Breathe them loud, the Queen descending
Yet a lowly welcome breathe,
Like so many flowerets bending
Zephyr's breezy foot beneath.
II
MORNING-SONG
AWAKE thee, my Lady-love !
Wake thee, and rise !
The sun through the bower peeps
Into thine eyes 1
i8
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
Behold how the early lark
Springs from the corn !
Hark, hark how the flower-bird
Winds her wee horn !
The swallow's glad shriek is heard
All through the air ;
The stock-dove is murmuring
Loud as she dare.
Apollo's wing'd bugleman
Cannot contain,
But peals his loud trumpet-call
Once and again.
Then wake thee, my Lady-love !
Bird of my bower !
The sweetest and sleepiest
Bird at this hour 1
LADY and
No pedlar
III
NEPHON'S SONG
ntlemen fays, come buy !
s such a rich packet as I.
Who wants a gown
Of purple fold,
Embroider'd down
The seams with gold ?
See here ! a Tulip richly laced
To please a royal fairy's taste !
Who wants a cap
Of crimson grand ?
By great good hap
I 've 01
one on hand :
Look, sir ! a Cock's-comb, flowering
red,
'T is just the thing, sir, for your head !
Who wants a frock
Of vestal hue ?
Or snowy smock ?
Fair maid, do you ?
O me ! a Ladysmock so white I
Your bosom's self is not more bright.
Who wants to sport
A slender limb ?
I 've every sort
Of hose for him :
Both scarlet, striped, and yellow ones :
This Woodbine makes such pantaloons !
Who wants (hush ! hush !)
A box of paint ?
'T will give a blush
Yet leave no taint :
This rose with natural rouge is fill'd,
From its own dewy leaves distilFd.
Then lady and gentlemen fays, come
buy!
You never will meet such a merchant
as I!
IV
ROMANZO TO SYLVIA
I'VE taught thee Love's sweet lesson
o'er,
A task that is not learn'd with tears :
Was Sylvia e'er so blest before
In her wild, solitary years ?
Then what does be deserve, the
Youth,
Who made her con so dear a truth !
Till now in silent vales to roam,
Singing vain songs to heedless flowers,
Or watch the dashing billows foam,
Amid thy lonely myrtle bowers,
To weave light crowns of various
hue,
Were all the joys thy bosom knew.
The wild bird, though most musical,
Could not to thy sweet plaint reply ;
The streamlet and the waterfall
Could only weep when thou didst sigh !
Thou couldst not change one dulcet
word
Either with billow, or with bird.
For leaves and flowers, but these alone,
Winds have a soft discoursing way ;
Heav'n's starry talk is all its own,
It dies in thunder far away.
E'en when thou wouldst the Moon
beguile
To speak, she only deigns to smile !
Now, birds and winds, be churlish still,
Ye waters keep your sullen roar,
Stars be as distant as ye will,
Sylvia need court ye now no more :
In Love there is society
She never yet could find with ye !
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
23rpan JEaflcr Procter
("BARRY CORNWALL")
THE SEA
THE sea ! the sea ! the open sea !
The blue, the fresh, the ever free !
Without a mark, without a bound,
It runneth the earth's wide regions round ;
It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ;
Or like a cradled creature lies.
I 'in on the sea ! I 'm on the sea !
I am where I would ever be ;
With the blue above, and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go ;
If a storm should come and awake the deep,
What matter ? / shall ride and sleep.
I love, O, how I love to ride
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide,
When every mad wave drowns the moon
Or whistles aloft his tempest tune,
And tells how goeth the world below f
And why the sou'west blasts do blow.
I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I lov'd the great sea more and more,
And backwards flew to her billowy breast,
Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ;
And a mother she was, and is, to me ;
For I was born on the open sea !
The waves were white, and red the morn,
In the noisy hour when I was born ;
And the whale it whistled, the porpoise
roll'd,
And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ;
And never was heard such an outcry wild
As welcom'd to life the ocean-child !
I Ve liv'd since then, in calm and strife,
Full fifty summers, a sailor's life,
With wealth to spend and a power to range,
But never have sought nor sighed for
change ;
And Death, whenever he comes to me,
Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea I
THE HUNTER'S SONG
RISE ! Sleep no more ! 'T is a noble morn :
The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn,
And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten
hound,
Under the steaming, steaming ground.
Behold, where the billowy clouds flow by,
And leave us alone in the clear gray sky !
Our horses are ready and steady. So, ho I
I 'm gone, like a dart from the Tartar's bow.
Hark, hark I Who calleth the maiden
Morn
From her sleep in the woods and the
stubble corn ?
The horn, the horn !
The merry, sweet ring of the hunter's horn.
Now, thorough the copse, where the fox is
found,
And over the stream, at a mighty bound,
And over the high lands, and over the low,
O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go !
Away ! as a hawk flies full at its prey,
So flieth the hunter, away, away I
From the burst at the cover till set of sun,
When the red fox dies, and the day is
done !
Hark, hark ! What sound on the wind
is borne f
'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter 1 3
horn.
The horn, the horn f
The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn.
Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter
good
What's the gulley deep or the roaring flood?
Right over he bounds, as the wild stag
bounds,
At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds.
O, what delight can a mortal lack,
When he once is firm on his horse's back,
With his stirrups short, and his snaffle
strong,
And the blast of the horn for his morning
song?
Hark, hark / Now, home I and dream
till mom
Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter'i
horn!
The horn, the horn I
0, the sound of all sounds is the hunter**
horn!
20
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE
How many summers, love,
Have I been thine ?
How many days, thou dove,
Hast thou been mine ?
Time, like the winged wind
When 't bends the flowers,
Hath left no mark behind,
To count the hours.
Some weight of thought, though loth,
On thee he leaves ;
Some lines of care round both
Perhaps he weaves ;
Some fears, a soft regret
For joys scarce known ;
Sweet looks we half forget ;
All else is flown !
Ah ! With what thankless heart
I mourn and sing !
Look, where our children start,
Like sudden Spring !
With tongues all sweet and low,
Like a pleasant rhyme,
They tell how much I owe
To thee and Time !
THE STORMY PETREL
A THOUSAND miles from land are we,
Tossing about on the roaring sea ;
From billow to bounding billow cast,
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast :
The sails are scatter'd abroad, like weeds,
The strong masts shake like quivering
reeds,
The mighty cables, and iron chains,
The hull, which all earthly strength disdains,
They strain and they crack, and hearts like
stone
Their natural hard, proud strength disown.
Up and down ! Up and down !
From the base of the wave to the billow's
crown,
And midst the flashing and feathery foam
The Stormy Petrel finds a home,
A home, if such a place may be,
For her who lives on the wide, wide sea,
On the craggy ice, in the frozen air,
And only seeketh her rocky lair
To warm her young, and to teach them
spring
At once o'er the waves on their stormy
wing.
O'er the Deep ! O'er the Deep !
Where the whale, and the shark, and the
sword-fish sleep,
Outflying the blast and the driving rain,
The Petrel telleth her tale in vain ;
For the mariner curseth the warning bird
Who bringeth him news of the storms un
heard !
Ah ! thus does the prophet, of good or ill,
Meet hate from the creatures he serveth
still :
Yet he ne'er falters : So, Petrel ! spring
Once more o'er the waves on thy stormy
wing!
PEACE ! WHAT DO TEARS AVAIL ?
PEACE ! what do tears avail ?
She lies all dumb and pale,
And from her eye
The spirit of lovely life is fading,
And she must die !
Why looks the lover wroth ? the friend up
braiding ?
Reply, reply !
Hath she not dwelt too long
'Midst pain, and grief, and wrong ?
Then, why not die ?
Why suffer again her doom of sorrow,
And hopeless lie ?
Why nurse the trembling dream until to
morrow ?
Reply, reply !
Death ! Take her to thine arms,
In all her stainless charms,
And with her fly
To heavenly haunts, where, clad in bright
ness,
The Angels lie.
Wilt bear her there, O Death ! in all hex
whiteness ?
Reply, reply !
LIFE
WE are born ; we laugh ; we weep ;
We love ; we droop ; we die !
BRYAN WALLER PROCTER
21
Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ?
Why do we live, or die ?
Who knows that secret deep ?
Alas, not I !
Why doth the violet spring
Unseen by human eye ?
Why do the radiant seasons bring
Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ?
Why do our fond hearts cling
To things that die ?
We toil, through pain and wrong ;
We fight, and fly ;
We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long,
Stone-dead we lie.
O life ! is all thy song
" Endure and die " ?
THE BLOOD HORSE
GAMARRA is a dainty steed,
Strong, black, and of a noble breed,
Full of fire, and full of bone,
Witli all his line of fathers known ;
Fine his nose, his nostrils thin,
But blown abroad by the pride within I
His mane is like a river flowing,
And his eyes like embers glowing
In the darkness of the night,
And his pace as swift as light.
Look, how 'round his straining throat
Grace and shifting beauty float !
Sinewy strength is on his reins,
And the red blood gallops through his veins ;
Richer, redder, never ran
Through the boasting heart of man.
He can trace his lineage higher
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph,
Or O'Brien's blood itself !
He, who hath no peer, was born
Here, upon a red March morn :
But his famous fathers dead
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred,
And the last of that great line
Trod like one of a race divine !
And yet, he was but friend to one
Who fed him at the set of sun,
By some lone fountain fringed with green :
With him, a roving Bedouin,
He liv'd, (none else would he obey
Through all the hot Arabian day,)
And died untam'd upon the sands
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands t
SIT DOWN, SAD SOUL
SIT down, sad soul, and count
The moments flying :
Come, tell the sweet amount
That 's lost by sighing !
How many smiles ? a score ?
Then laugh, and count no more ;
For day is dying.
Lie down, sad soul, and sleep,
And no more measure
The flight of Time, nor weep
The loss of leisure ;
But here, by this lone stream,
Lie down with us, and dream
Of starry treasure.
We dream : do thou the same :
We love for ever ;
We laugh ; yet few we shame,
The gentle, never.
Stay, then, till Sorrow dies ;
Then hope and happy skies
Are thine for ever !
GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE
SING, I pray, a little song,
Mother dear !
Neither sad nor very long :
It is for a little maid,
Golden-tressed Adelaide !
Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear,
Mother dear !
Let it be a merry strain,
Mother dear !
Shunning e'en the thought of pain :
For our gentle child will weep,
If the theme be dark and deep ;
And we will not draw a single, single tear,
Mother dear !
Childhood should be all divine,
Mother dear !
And like an endless summer shine ;
Gay as Edward's shouts and cries,
Bright as Agnes' azure eyes :
Therefore, bid thy song be merry : dost
thou hear,
Mother dear ?
22
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
A POET'S THOUGHT
TELL me, what is a poet's thought ?
Is it on the sudden born ?
Is it from the starlight caught ?
Is it by the tempest taught,
Or by whispering morn ?
Was it cradled in the brain ?
Chain'd awhile, or nurs'd in night ?
Was it wrought with toil and pain ?
Did it bloom and fade again,
Ere it burst to light ?
No more question of its birth :
Rather love its better part !
*T is a thing of sky and earth,
Gathering all its golden worth
From the Poet's heart.
A PETITION TO TIME
TOUCH us gently, Time !
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently, as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream.
Humble voyagers are We,
Husband, wife, and children three -
(One is lost, an angel, fled
To the azure overhead.)
Touch us gently, Time !
We 've not proud nor soaring wings :
Our ambition, our content,
Lies in simple things.
Humble voyagers are We,
O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea,
Seeking only some calm clime ;
Touch us gently, gentle Time !
Cfjarieg
FROM "JOSEPH AND HIS
BRETHREN "
RACHEL
RACHEL, the beautiful (as she was call'd),
Despis'd our mother Leah, for that she
Was tender-ey'd, lean-favor'd, and did lack
The pulpy ripeness swelling the white skin
To sleek proportions beautiful and round,
With wrinkled joints so fruitful to the eye.
All this Is fair : and yet we know it true
That 'neath a pomane breast and snowy side
A heart of guile and falsehood may be hid,
As well as where the soil is deeper tinct.
So here with this same Rachel was it found :
The dim blue-laced veins on either brow,
Neath the transparent skin meandering,
That with the silver-leaved lily vied ;
Her full dark eye, whose brightness glis-
ten'd through
The sable lashes soft as camel-hair ;
Her slanting head curv'd like the maiden
moon
And hung with hair luxuriant as a vine
And blacker than a storm ; her rounded ear
Turn'd like a shell upon some golden shore ;
Her whispering foot that carried all her
weight,
Nor left its little pressure on the sand ;
Her lips as drowsy poppies, soft and red,
Gathering a dew from her escaping breath j
Her voice melodious, mellow, deep, and
clear,
Lingering like sweet music in the ear ;
Her neck o'ersoften'd like to unsunu'd curd;
Her tapering lingers rounded to a point ;
The silken softness of her veined hand ;
Her dimpled knuckles answering to her
chin ;
And teeth like honeycombs o' the wilder
ness :
All these did tend to a bad proof in her.
For armed thus in beauty she did steal
The eye of Jacob to her proper self,
Engross'd his time, and kept him by hep
side,
Casting on Leah indifference and neglect ;
Whereat great Heaven took our mother's
part
And struck young Rachel with a barrenness,
While she bore children : thus the matter
went ;
Till Rachel, feeling guilty of her fault,
Turn'd to some penitence, which Heaven
heard ;
And then she bore this Joseph, who must,
and does,
CHARLES JEREMIAH WELLS
Inherit towards the children all the pride
And scorn his mother had towards our
mother :
Wherefore he suffers in our just rebuke.
PHRAXANOR TO JOSEPH
Phrax. Oh I ignorant boy, it is the secret
hour,
The sun of love doth shine most goodly
fair.
Contemptible darkness never yet did dull
The splendor of love's palpitating light.
At love's slight curtains, that are made of
sighs,
Though e'er so dark, silence is seen to stand
Like to a flower closed in the night ;
Or, like a lovely image drooping down
With its fair head aslant and finger rais'd,
And mutely on its shoulder slumbering.
Pulses do sound quick music in Love's ear,
And blended fragrance in his startled breath
Doth hang the hair with drops of magic dew.
All outward thoughts, all common circum
stance,
Are buried in the dimple of his smile :
And the great city like a vision sails
From out the closing doors of the hush'd
mind.
His heart strikes audibly against his ribs
As a dove's wing doth freak upon a cage,
Forcing the blood athro' the cramped veins
Faster than dolphins do o'ershoot the tide
Cours'd by the yawning shark. Therefore
I say
Night-blooming Cereus, and the star-flower
sweet,
The honeysuckle, and the eglantine,
And the ring'd vinous tree that yields red
wine,
Together with all intertwining flowers,
Are plants most fit to ramble o'er each
other,
And form the bower of all-precious Love,
Shrouding the sun with fragrant bloom and
leaves
From jealous interception of Love's gaze.
This is Love's cabin in the light of day,
But oh ! compare it not with the black
night;
Delay thou sun, and give me instant night
Its soft, mysterious, and secret hours ;
The whitest clouds are pillows to bright
stars,
&h ! therefore shroud thine eyes.
THE PATRIARCHAL HOME
Joseph. Still I am patient, tho' you're
merciless.
Yet to speak out my mind, I do avouch
There is no city feast, nor city show,
The encampment of the king and soldiery.
Rejoicings, revelries, and victories,
Can equal the remembrance of my home
In visible imagination.
Even as he was I see my father now,
His ^rave and graceful head's benignity
Musing beyond the confines of this world,
His world within with all its mysteries.
What pompless majesty was in his mien,
An image of integrity creates,
Pattern of nature, in perfection.
Lo ! in the morning when we issued forth,
The patriarch surrounded by his sons,
Girt round with looks of sweet obedience,
Each struggling who should honor him the
most ;
While from the wrinkles deep of many
years,
Enfurrow'd smiles, like violets in snow,
Touch'd us with heat and melancholy cold,
Mingling our joy with sorrow for his age :
There were my brothers, habited in skins ;
Ten goodly men, myself, and a sweet youth
Too young to mix in anything but joy ;
And in his hands each led a milk-white
steer,
Hung o'er with rpses, garlanded with flow
ers,
Laden with fragrant panniers of green
boughs
Of bays and myrtle interleav'd with herbs,
Wherein was stor'd our country wine and
fruit,
And bread with honey sweeten'd, and dried
figs,
And pressed curds, and choicest rarities,
Stores of the cheerless season of the year ;
While at our sides the women of our tribe,
With pitchers on their heads, fill'd to the
brim
With wine, and honey, and with smoking
milk,
Made proud the black-ey'd heifers with the
swell
Of the sweet anthem sung in plenty's praise.
Thus would we journey to the wilderness,
And fixing O n some peak that did o'erlook
The spacious plains that lay display'd be
neath,
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
Where we could see our cattle, like to specks
In the warm meads, browsing the juicy
grass,
There pitch our tent, and feast, and revel
out,
The minutes flying faster than our feet
That vaulted nimbly to the pipe and voice,
Making fatigue more sweet by appetite.
There stood the graceful Reuben by my
sire,
Piping a ditty, ardent as the sun,
And, like him, stealing renovation
Into the darkest corner of the soul,
And filling it with light. There, women
group'd,
My sisters and their maids, with ears sub
dued,
With bosoms panting from the eager dance,
Against each other lean'd ; as I have seen
A graceful tuft of lilies of the vale
Oppress'd with rain, upon each other bend,
While freshness has stol'n o'er them. Some
way off
My brothers pitch'd the bar, or plough'd for
fame.
Each two with their two heifers harness'd
fast
Unto the shaft, and labor'd till the sweat
Had crept about them like a sudden thaw.
Anon they tied an eagle to a tree,
And strove at archery ; or with a bear
Struggled for strength of limb. These
were no slaves .
No villain's sons to rifle passengers.
The sports being done, the winners claim'd
the spoil :
Or hide, or feather, or renowned bow,
Or spotted cow, or fleet and pamper'd horse.
And then my father bless'd us, and we sang
Our sweet way home again. Oft I have
ach'd
In memory of these so precious hours,
And wept upon those keys that were my
pride,
And soak'd my pillow thro' the heavy night.
Alas ! God willing, I '11 be patient yet.
THE TRIUMPH OF JOSEPH
In the royal path
Came maidens rob'd in white, enchain'd in
flowers,
Sweeping the ground with incense-scented
palms :
Then came the sweetest voices of the land,
And cried, ' Bow ye the knee ! ' and then
aloud
Clarions and trumpets broke forth in the air:
After a multitude of men-at-arms,
Of priests, of officers, and horsed chiefs,
Came the benignant Pharaoh, whose great
pride
Was buried in his smile. I did but glimpse
His car, for 't was of burnish'd gold. No
eye
Save that of eagles could confront the blaze
That seem'd to burn the air, unless it fell
Either on sapphire or carbuncle huge
That riveted the weight. This car was
drawn
By twelve jet horses, being four abreast,
And pied in their own foam. Within the
car
Sat Pharaoh, whose bare head was girt
around
By a crown of iron ; and his sable hair,
Like strakey as a mane, fell where it would,
And somewhat hid his glossy sun-brent neck
And carcanet of precious sardonyx.
His jewell'd armlets, weighty as a sword,
Clasp'd his brown naked arms a crimson
robe,
Deep edged with silver, and with golden
thread,
Upon a bear-skin kirtle deeply blush'd,
Whose broad resplendent braid and shield-
like clasps
Were boss'd with diamonds large, by rubies
fir'd,
Like beauty's eye in rage, or roses white
Lit by the glowing red. Beside him lay
A bunch of poppied corn ; and at his feet
A tamed lion as his footstool crouch'd.
Cas'd o'er in burnish'd plates I, hors'd, did
bear
A snow-white eagle on a silver shaft,
From whence great Pharaoh's royal banner
stream'd,
An emblem of his might and dignity ;
And as the minstrelsy burst clanging forth,
With shouts that broke like thunder from
the host,
The royal bird with kindred pride of power
Flew up the measure of his silken cord,
And arch'd his cloud-like wings as he would
mount,
And babble of this glory to the sun.
Then follow'd Joseph in a silver car,
Drawn by eight horses, white as evening
clouds :
SIR HENRY TAYLOR
1 1 His feet were resting upon Pharaoh's sword ;
And on his head a i-rown of drooping corn
Moc-k'd that of Ceres in high holiday.
His robes were simple, but were full of
grace,
And (out of love and truth I speak him
thus)
I never did behold a man less proud,
More dignified or grateful to admire.
His honors nothing teas'd him from him
self;
And he but fill'd his fortunes like a man
Who did intend to honor them as much
As they could honor him-
aplor
FROM "PHILIP VAN ARTE-
VELDE"
JOHN OF LAUNOY
I NEVER look'd that he should live so long.
He was a man of that unsleeping spirit,
He seem'd to live by miracle : his food
Was glory, which was poison to his mind
And peril to his body. He was one
Of many thousand such that die betimes,
Whose story is a fragment, known to few.
Then comes the man who has the luck to live,
And he 's a prodigy. Compute the chances,
And deem there 's ne'er a one in dangerous
times
Who wins the race of glory, but than him
A thousand men more gloriously endow'd
Have fallen upon the course ; a thousand
others
Have had their fortunes founder'd by a
chance,
Whilst lighter barks push'd past them ; to
whom add
A smaller tally, of the singular few
Who, gifted with predominating powers,
Bear yet a temperate will and keep the
peace.
Hie world knows nothing of its greatest
men.
REVOLUTIONS
;r | There was a time, so ancient records tell,
There were communities, scarce known by
name
In these degenerate days, but once far-
fam'd,
Where liberty and justice, hand in hand,
Order'd the common weal ; where great
men grew
Up to their natural eminence, and none,
Saving the wise, just, eloquent, were great ;
Where power was of God's gift, to whom
he gave
Supremacy of merit, the sole means
And broad highway to power, that ever
then
Was meritoriously administer'd,
Whilst all its instruments from first to last,
The tools of state for service high or low,
Were chosen for their aptness to those ends
Which virtue meditates. To shake the
ground
Deep-founded whereupon this structure
stood,
Was verily a crime ; a treason it was,
Conspiracies to hatch against this state
And its free innocence. But now, I ask,
Where is there on God's earth that polity
Which it is not, by consequence converse,
A treason against nature to uphold ?
Whom may we now call free ? whom great?
whom wise ?
Whom innocent ? the free are only they
Whom power makes free to execute all ills
Their hearts' imagine ; they alone are great
Whose passions nurse them from their cra
dles up
In luxury and lewdness, whom to see
Is to despise, whose aspects put to scorn
Their station's eminence ; the wise, they
only
Who wait obscurely till the bolts of heaven
Shall break upon the land, and give them
light
Whereby to walk ; the innocent, alas !
Poor innoceucy lies where four roads meet,
A stone upon her head, a stake driven
through her,
For who is innocent that cares to live ?
The hand of power doth press the very life
Of innocency out ! What then remains
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
But in the cause of nature to stand forth,
And turn this frame of things the right side
up?
For this the hour is come, the sword is
drawn,
And tell your masters vainly they resist.
SONG
Down lay in a nook my lady's brach,
And said my feet are sore,
J cannot follow with the pack
A hunting of the boar.
And though the horn sounds never so clear
With the hounds in loud uproar,
Yet I must stop and lie down here,
Because my feet are sore.
The huntsman when he heard the same,
What answer did he give ?
The dog that 's lame is much to blame,
He is not fit to live.
SONG
Quoth tongue of neither maid nor wife
To heart of neither wife nor maid,
Lead we not here a jolly life
Betwixt the shine and shade ?
Quoth heart of neither maid nor wife
To tongue of neither wife nor maid,
Thou wag'st, but I am worn with strife,
And feel like flowers that fade.
PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE
Dire rebel though he was,
Yet with a noble nature and great gifts
Was he endow'd, courage, discretion,
wit,
An equal temper, and an ample soul,
Rock-bound and fortified against assaults
Of transitory passion, but below
Built on a surging subterranean fire
That stirr'd and lifted him to high attempts.
So prompt and capable, and yet so calm,
He nothing lack'd in sovereignty but the
right,
Nothing in soldiership except good fortune.
Wherefore with honor lay him in his grave,
And thereby shall increase of honor come
Unto their arms who vanquish'd one so wise,
So valiant, so renown'd.
FROM "EDWIN THE FAIR"
THE WIND IN THE PINES
THE tale was this :
The wind, when first he rose and went
abroad
Through the waste region, felt himself at
fault,
Wanting a voice ; and suddenly to earth
Descended with a wafture and a swoop,
Where, wandering volatile from kind to
kind,
He woo'd the several trees to give him one.
First he besought the ash ; the voice she lent
Fitfully with a free and lashing change
Flung here and there its sad uncertainties :
The aspen next ; a flutter'd frivolous twit
ter
Was her sole tribute : from the willow came,
So long as dainty summer dress'd her out,
A whispering sweetness, but her winter note
Was hissing, dry, and reedy : lastly the pine
Did he solicit, and from her he drew
A voice so constant, soft, and lowly deep,
That there he rested, welcoming in her
A mild memorial of the ocean-cave
Where he was born.
A CHARACTERIZATION
His life was private ; safely led, aloof
From the loud world, which yet he under
stood
Largely and wisely, as no worldling could.
For he, by privilege of his nature proof
Against false glitter, from beneath the roof
Of privacy, as from a cave, survey'd
With steadfast eye its flickering light and
shade,
And gently judged for evil and for good.
But whilst he mix'd not for his own behoof
In public strife, his spirit glow'd with zeal.
Not shorn of action, for the public weal,
For truth and justice as its warp and woof.
For freedom as its signature and seal.
His life, thus sacred from the world, dis
charged
From vain ambition and inordinate care,
In virtue exercis'd, by reverence rare
Lifted, and by humility enlarged,
Became a temple and a place of prayer.
In latter years he walk'd not singly there ;
LORD MACAULAY
For one was with him, ready at all hours
His griefs, his joys, his inmost thoughts to
share,
Who buoyantly his burthens help'd to bear,
And deck'd his altars daily with fresh flow
ers.
Lines on the Hon. Edward Ernest Villiers.
ARETINA'S SONG
I 'M a bird that 's free
Of the land and sea,
I wander whither I will ;
But oft on the wing,
I falter and sing,
Oh, fluttering heart, be still,
Be still,
Oh, fluttering heart, be still !
I'm wild as the wind,
But soft and kind,
And wander whither I may ;
The eyebright sighs,
And says with its eyes,
Thou wandering wind, oh stay,
Oh stay,
Thou wandering wind, oh stay !
A Sicilian Summer.
THE HERO
WHAT makes a hero ? not success, not
fame,
Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim
Of glutted Avarice, caps toss'd up in
air,
Or pen of journalist with flourish fair ;
Bells peal'd, stars, ribbons, and a titulai
name
These, though his rightful tribute, he can
spare ;
His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,
Or true reward ; for never yet did these
Refresh the soul, or set the heart at
ease.
What makes a hero ? An heroic mind,
Express'd in action, in endurance prov'd.
And if there be preeminence of right,
Deriv'd through pain well suffer'd, to the
height
Of rank heroic, 't is to bear unmov'd,
Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or
wind,
Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,
But worse ingratitude and poisonous
darts,
Launched by the country he had serv'd
and lov'd :
This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,
This, in the strength of silence to endure,
A dignity to noble deeds imparts
Beyond the gauds and trappings of re
nown ;
This is the hero's complement and crown ;
This miss'd, one struggle had been want
ing still,
One glorious triumph of the heroic will,
One self-approval in his heart of hearts.
Horti
(THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY)
THE BATTLE OF NASEBY
BY OBADIAH- BIND -THEIR -KINGS -IN -
CHAINS-AND-THEIR-NOBLES-WITH-
LINKS-OF-IRON, SERGEANT IN
IRETON'S REGIMENT
OH ! wherefore come ye forth in triumph
from the north,
With your hands, and your feet, and your
raiment all red ?
And wherefore doth your rout send forth a
joyous shout ?
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press
that ye tread ?
Oh ! evil was the root, and bitter was the
fruit,
And crimson was the juice of the vintage
that we trod ;
For we trampled on the throng of the
haughty and the strong,
Who sate in the high places and slew the
saints of God,
28
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
It was about the noon of a glorious day of
June;
That we saw their banners dance and their
cuirasses shine,
And the man of blood was there, with his
long essenced hair,
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Ru
pert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his bible
and his sword,
The general rode along us to form us for
the fight ;
When a murmuring sound broke out, and
swell'd into a shout
Among the godless horsemen upon the
tyrant's right.
And hark ! like the roar of the billows on
the shore,
The cry of battle rises along their charging
line :
For God ! for the cause ! for the Church !
for the laws !
For Charles, king of England, and Rupert
of the Rhine !
The furious German comes, with his clari
ons and his drums,
His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of White
hall ;
They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp
your pikes ! Close your ranks !
For Rupert never comes, but to conquer, or
to fall.
They are here they rush on we are
broken we are gone
Our left is borne before them like stubble
on the blast.
O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord,
defend the right !
Stand back to back, in God's name ! and
fight it to the last !
Stout Skippon hath a wound the centre
hath given ground.
Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling
of horsemen on our rear ?
Whose banner do I see, boys ? ' T is he !
thank God! 'tis he, boys !
Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is
here !
Their heads all stooping low, their points
all in a row :
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge
on the dikes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of
the Accurst,
And at a shock have scatter'd the forest of
his pikes.
Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe
nook to hide
Their coward heads, predestin'd to rot on
Temple Bar ;
And he he turns ! he flies ! shame on
those cruel eyes
That bore to look on torture, and dare not
look on war !
Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye
strip the slain,
First give another stab to make your search
secure ;
Then shake from sleeves and pockets their
broad-pieces and lockets,
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the
poor.
Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and
your hearts were gay and bold,
When you kiss'd your lily hands to your
lemans to-day ;
And to-morrow shall the fox from her
chambers in the rocks
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl about
the prey.
Where be your tongues, that late mock'd
at heaven and hell and fate ?
And the fingers that once were so busy with
your blades ?
Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches i
and your oaths ?
Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your
diamonds and your spades ?
Down, down, for ever down with the mitre i
and the crown,
With the Belial of the court, and the Mam- <
mon of the Pope !
There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail
in Durham's stalls ;
The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop*
rends his cope.
And she of the seven hills shall mourn her
children's ills,
And tremble when she thinks on the edge
of England's sword j
LORD MACAULAY
29
And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder
whrn they hear
What the hand of God hath wrought for the
Houses and the Word!
EPITAPH ON A JACOBITE
To my true king I offer'd free from stain
and faith : vain faith, and courage
vain.
him, I threw lands, honors, wealth,
away,
one dear hope, that was more priz'd
than they.
him I languished in a foreign clime,
Gray-hair'd with sorrow in my manhood's
prime ;
Heard on Lavernia ScargilPs whispering
trees,
And pin'd by Arno for my lovelier Tees ;
Beheld each night my home in fever'd sleep,
Each morning started from the dream to
weep ;
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
The resting place I ask'd, an early grave.
Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless
stone
From that proud country which was once
mine own,
By those white cliffs I never more must see,
By that dear language which I spake like
thee,
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
IVRY
Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom
all glories are !
And glory to our sovereign liege, King
Henry of Navarre !
Now let there be the merry sound of music
and of dance,
Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny
vines, O pleasant land of France !
And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle,
proud city of the waters,
Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy
mourning daughters.
As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous
in our joy ;
For cold and stiff and still are they who
wrought thy walls annoy.
Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turu'd
the chance of war !
Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry, and Henry of
Navarre.
Oh ! how our hearts were beating, when, at
the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out
in long array ;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all ita
rebel peers,
And AppenzeFs stout infantry, and Eg-
mont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the
curses of our land ;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a
truncheon in his hand ;
And, as we look'd on them, we thought of
Seine's empurpled flood,
And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled
with his blood ;
And we cried unto the living God, who rules
the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry
of Navarre.
The king is come to marshal us, in all his
armor drest ;
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon
his gallant crest.
He look'-d upon his people, and a tear was
in his eye ;
He look'd upon the traitors, and his glance
was stern and high.
Right graciously he smil'd on us, as roll'd
from wing to wing,
Down all our line, a deafening shout : God
save our lord the king !
" And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full
well he may,
For never I saw promise yet of such a
bloody fray,
Press where ye see my white plume shine
amidst the ranks of war,
And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet
of Navarre."
Hurrah ! the foes are moving. Hark to
the mingled din,
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum,
and roaring culveriu.
The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint
A m I iv's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Gueldrs
and Alumyne.
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentle
men of France,
Charge for the golden lilies upon them
with the lance !
A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou
sand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close be
hind the snow-white crest ;
And in they burst, and on they rush'd,
while, like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blaz'd the hel
met of Navarre.
Now, God be prais'd, the day is ours : Ma-
yenne hath turn'd his rein ;
D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the
Flemish count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds
before a Biscay gale ;
The field is heap'd with bleeding steeds,
and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and,
all along our van,
Remember Saint Bartholomew ! was pass'd
from man to man.
But out spake gentle Henry " No French
man is my foe :
Down, down with every foreigner, but let
your brethren go : "
Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friend
ship or in war,
As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the sol
dier of Navarre ?
Right well fought all the Frenchmen who
fought for France to-day ;
And many a lordly banner God gave them
for a prey.
But we of the religion have borne us best
in fight ;
And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the
cornet white
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white
hath ta'en,
The cornet white with crosses black, the flag
of false Lorraine.
Up with it high ; unfurl it wide ; that all
the host may know
How God hath humbled the proud house
which wrought His Church such
woe.
Then on the ground, while trumpets sound
their loudest point of war,
Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for
Henry of Navarre.
Ho ! maidens of Vienna ; ho ! matrons
Lucerne
Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those
who never shall return.
Ho ! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican
pistoles,
That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for
thy poor spearmen's souls.
Ho ! gallant nobles of the League, look that
your arms be bright ;
Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch
and ward to-night ;
For our God hath crush'd the tyrant, our
God hath rais'd the slave,
And mock'd the counsel of the wise, and
the valor of the brave.
Then glory to His holy name, from whom
all glories are ;
And glory to our sovereign lord,King Henry
of Navarre !
ftirfjarfc
FROM "ORION : AN EPIC POEM"
MEETING OF ORION AND ARTEMIS
AFAR the hunt in vales below has sped,
But now behind the wooded mount ascends,
Threading its upward mazes of rough
boughs,
Moss'd trunks and thickets, still invisible,
Although its jocund music fills the air
With cries and laughing echoes, mellow'd
all
By intervening woods and the deep hills.
The scene in front two sloping mountain
sides
Display'd ; in shadow one, and one in light
The loftiest on its summit now sustain'd
The sun-beams, raying like a mighty wheel
Half seen, which left the front-ward sur
face dark
RICHARD HENGIST HORNE
In its full breadth of shade ; the coming sun
Hidden as yet behind : the other mount,
Slanting oppos'd, swept with an eastward
face,
Catching the golden light. Now, while the
peal
Of the ascending chase told that the rout
Still midway rent the thickets, suddenly
Along the broad and sunny slope appear'd
The shadow of a stag that fled across,
Follow'd by a Giant's shadow with a spear !
"Hunter of Shadows, thou thyself a
Shade,"
Be comforted in this, that substance holds
No higher attributes ; one sovereign law
Alike develops both, and each shall hunt
Its proper object, each in turn commanding
Tin- primal impulse, till gaunt Time become
A Shadow cast on Space to fluctuate,
Waiting the breath of the Creative Power
To give new types for substance yet un
known :
So from f aiiit nebulse bright worlds are born ;
So worlds return to vapor. Dreams design
Most solid lasting things, and from the eye
That searches life, death evermore retreats.
Substance unseen, pure mythos, or mi
rage,
The shadowy chase has vanish'd ; round the
swell
Of the near mountain sweeps a bounding
stag ;
Round whirls a god-like Giant close behind ;
.O'er a fallen trunk the stag with slippery
hoofs
Stumbles his sleek knees lightly touch
the grass
Upward he springs but in his forward
leap,
The Giant's hand hath caught him fast be
neath
One shoulder tuft, and, lifted high in air,
Sustains ! Now Phoibos' chariot rising
bursts
Over the summits with a circling blaze,
Gilding those frantic antlers, and the head
Of that so glorious Giant in his youth,
Who, as he turns, the form saccinct beholds
Of Artemis, her bow, with points drawn
back,
A golden hue on her white rounded breast
Reflecting, while the arrow's ample barb
Gleams o'er her hand, and at his heart is
aim'd.
The Giant lower'd his arm away the
stag
Breast forward plunged into a thicket near;
The Goddess paus'd, and dropp'd her ar
row's point
Rais'd it again and then again relax'd
Her tension, and while slow the shaft carae
gliding
Over the centre of the bow, beside
Her hand, and gently droop'd, so did the
knee
Of that heroic shape do reverence
Before the Goddess. Their clear eyes had
ceas'd
To flash, and gaz'd with earnest softening
light.
DISTRAUGHT FOR MEROPE.
O Meropd !
And where art thou, while idly thus I rave ?
Runs there no hope no fever through thy
veins,
Like that which leaps and courses round
my heart ?
Shall I resign thee, passion-perfect maid,
Who in mortality's most finish'd work
Rank'st highest and lov'st me, even as 1
love?
Rather possess thee with a tenfold stress
Of love ungovernable, being denied J
'Gainst fraud what should I cast down in
reply ?
What but a sword, since force must do me
right,
And strength was given unto me with my
birth,
In mine own hand, and by ascendancy
Over my giant brethren. Two remain,
Whom prayers to dark Hephaistos and my
sire
Poseidon, shall awaken into life ;
And we will tear up gates, and scatter
towers,
Until I bear off Meropd. Sing on !
Sing on, great tempest ! in the darkness
sing!
Thy madness is a music that brings calm
Into my central soul ; and from its waves
That now with joy begin to heave and gush,
The burning Image of all life's desire,
Like an absorbing fire-breath'd phantom-
god,
Rises and floats ! here touching on the
foam,
There hovering over it ; ascending swift
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
Starward, then swooping down the hemi
sphere
Upon the lengthening javelins of the blast.
Why paus'd I in the palace-groves to dream
Of bliss, with all its substance in my reach ?
Why not at once, with thee enfolded, whirl
Deep down the abyss of ecstasy, to melt
All brain and being where no reason is,
Or else the source of reason ? But the roar
Of Time's great wings, which ne'er had
driven me
By dread events, nor broken-down old age,
Back on myself, the close experience
Of false mankind, with whispers cold and
dry
As snake-songs midst stone hollows, thus
has taught me,
The giant hunter, laugh'd at by the world,
Not to forget the substance in the dream
Which breeds it. Both must melt and
merge in one.
Now shall I overcome thee, body and soul,
And like a new-made element brood o'er
thee
With all devouring murmurs ! Come, my
love !
Come, life's blood-tempest! come, thou
blinding storm,
And clasp the rigid pine this mortal
frame
Wrap with thy whirlwinds, rend and wrestle
down,
And let my being solve its destiny,
Defying, seeking, thine extremest power;
Famish'd and thirsty for the absorbing
doom
Of that immortal death which leads to life,
And gives a glimpse of Heaven's parental
scheme.
IN FOREST DEPTHS
Within the isle, far from the walks of
men,
Where jocund chase was never heard, nor
hoof
Of Satyr broke the moss, nor any bird
Sang, save at times the nightingale but
only
In his prolong'd and swelling tones, nor e'er
With wild joy and hoarse laughing melody,
Closing the ecstasy, as is his wont,
A forest, separate and far withdrawn
From all the rest, there grew. Old as the
earth,
Of cedar was it, lofty in its glooms
When the sun hung o'erhead, and, in its
darkness,
Like Night when giving birth to Time'
first pulse.
Silence had ever dwelt there ; but of late
Came faint sounds, with a cadence droning
low,
From the far depths, as of a cataract
Whose echoes midst incumbent foliage died.
From one high mountain gush'd a flowing
stream,
Which through the forest pass'd, and found
a fall
Within, none knew where, then roll'd
tow'rds the sea.
There, underneath the boughs, mark
where the gleam
Of sunrise through the roofing's chasm is
thrown
Upon a grassy plot below, whereon
The shadow of a stag stoops to the stream
Swift rolling tow'rds the cataract, and
drinks deeply.
Throughout the day unceasingly it drinks,
While ever and anon the nightingale,
Not waiting for the evening, swells his
hymn
His one sustain'd and heaven - aspiring
tone
And when the sun hath vanish'd utterly,
Arm over arm the cedars spread their shade,
With arching wrist and long extended
hands,
And graveward fingers lengthening in the
moon,
Above that shadowy stag whose antlers still
Hang o'er the stream. Now came a rich- \\
ton'd voice
Out of the forest depths, and sang this lay, i
With deep speech intervall'd and tender !
pause.
" If we have lost the world what gain is j
ours !
Hast thou not built a palace of more grace
Than marble towers ? These trunks are ;
pillars rare,
Whose roof embowers with far more gran
deur. Say,
Hast thou not found a bliss with Me rope*,
As full of rapture as existence new ?
'T is thus with me. I know that thou art
bless'd.
RICHARD HENGIST HORNE
33
Our inmost powers, fresh wiug'd, shall soar
and dream
In realms of Klysian gleam, whose air
tight tlowers,
Will ever be, though vague, most fair, most
sweet,
Better than memory. Look yonder, love !
What solemn hnage through the trunks is
straying ?
And now he doth not move, yet never turns
On us his visage of rapt vacancy !
It is ( )blivion. In his hand though nought
Knows he of this a dusky purple flower
Droops over its tall stem. Again, ah see !
He wanders into mist, and now is lost.
Within his brain what lovely realms of
death
Are pictur'd, and what knowledge through
the doors
Of his forgetfulness of all the earth
A path may gain ? Then turn thee, love,
to me :
Was I not worth thy winning, and thy toil,
earth-born son of Ocean ? Melt to rain."
EOS
Level with the summit of that eastern
mount,
By slow approach, and like a promontory
Which seems to glide and meet a coming
ship,
The pale-gold platform of the morning came
Towards the gliding mount. Against a sky
Of delicate purple, snow-bright courts and
halls,
Touch'd with light silvery green, gleaming
across,
Fronted by pillars vast, cloud-capitall'd,
With shafts of changeful pearl, all rear'd
upon
An isle of clear aerial gold, came floating ;
And in the centre, clad in fleecy white,
With lucid lilies in her golden hair,
Eos, sweet Goddess of the Morning, stood.
From the bright peak of that surrounded
mount,
One step sufficed to gain the tremulous floor
Whereon the palace of the Morning shone,
Scarcely a bow-shot distant ; but that step,
Orion's humbled and still mortal feet
Dai (1 not adventure. In the Goddess' face
Imploringly he gaz'd. "Advance!" she
said,
In tones more sweet than when some hea
venly bird,
Hid in a rosy cloud, its morning hvmn
Warbles unseen, wet with delicious dews,
And to earth's flowers, all looking up in
prayer,
Tells of the coming bliss. " Believe ad
vance !
Or, as the spheres move onward with their
song
That calls me to awaken other lands,
That moment will escape which ne'er re
turns."
Forward Orion stepp'd : the platform
bright
Shook like the reflex of a star in water
Mov'd by the breeze, throughout its whole
expanse ;
And even the palace glisten'd fitfully,
As with electric shiver it sent forth
Odors of flowers divine and all fresh life.
Still stood he where he stepp'd, nor to
return
Attempted. To essay one pace beyond
He felt no power yet onward he advanced
Safe to the Goddess, who, with hand out-
stretch'd,
Into the palace, led him. Grace and
strength,
With sense of happy change to finer earth,
Freshness of nature, and belief in good,
Came flowing o'er his soul, and he was
bless'd.
'Tis always morning somewhere in the
world,
And Eos rises, circling constantly
The varied regions of mankind. No pause
Of renovation and of freshening rays
She knows, but evermore her love breathes
forth
On fiVld and forest, as on human hope,
Health, beauty, power, thought, action, and
advance.
All this Orion witness'd, and rejoiced.
AKINETOS
'T was eve, and Time, his vigorous course
pursuing,
Met Akinetos walking by the sea.
At sight of him the Father of the Hours
Paus'd on the sand, which shrank, grew
moist, and trembled
At that unwonted pressure of the God.
34
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
And thus with look and accent stern, he
spake :
" Thou art the mortal who, with hand un-
mov'd,
Eatest the fruit of others' toil; whose heart
Is but a vital engine that conveys
Blood, to no purpose, up and down thy frame ;
Whose forehead is a large stone sepulchre
Of knowledge ! and whose life but turns to
waste
My measur'd hours, and earth's material
mass!"
Whereto the Great Unmov'd no answer
made,
And Time continued, sterner than before :
" O not-to-be-approv'd ! thou Apathy,
Who gazest downward on that empty
shell,
Is it for thee, who bear'st the common lot
Of man, and art his brother in the fields,
From birth to funeral pyre ; is it for thee,
Who didst derive from thy long-living sire
More knowledge than endows far better
sons,
Thy lamp to burn within, and turn aside
Thy face from all humanity, or behold it
Without emotion, like some sea-shell'd
thing
Staring around from a green hollow'd rock,
Not aiding, loving, caring hoping aught
Forgetting Nature, and by her forgot ? "
Whereto, with mildness, Akinetos said,
" Hast thou consider'd of Eternity ? "
" Profoundly have I done so, in my youth,"
Chronos replied, and bow'd his furrow'd
head;
" Most, when my tender feet from Chaos
trod
Stumbling, and, doubtful of my eyes, my
hands
The dazzling air explor'd. But, since that
date,
So many ages have I told ; so many,
Fleet after fleet on newly opening seas,
Descry before me, that of late my thoughts
Have rather dwelt on all around my path,
With anxious care. Well were it thus with
thee."
Then Akinetos calmly spake once more,
With eyes stUl bent upon the tide-ribb'd
aarwlo
" And dost thou of To-morrow also think ? "
Whereat, as one dismay'd by sudden
thought
Of many crowding things that call him
thence,
Time, with bent brows, went hurrying on
his way.
Slowtow'rdshiscavethe Great Unmov'd
repair'd,
And, with his back against the rock, sat
down
Outside, half smiling in the pleasant air ;
And in the lonely silence of the place
He thus, at length, discours'd unto himself:
" Orion, ever active and at work,
Honest and skilful, not to be surpass'd,
Drew misery on himself and those he lov'd ;
Wrought his companions' death, and now
hath found,
At Artemis' hand, his own. So fares it ever
With the world's builder. He, from wall
to beam,
From pillar to roof, from shade to corporal
form,
From the first vague Thought to the Temple
vast,
A ceaseless contest with the crowd endures,
For whom he labors. Why then should
we move ?
Our wisdom cannot change whate'er 's de
creed,
Nor e'en the acts or thoughts of brainless
men :
Why then be mov'd ? Best reason is most
vain.
He who will do and suffer, must and
end.
Hence, death is not an evil, since it leads
To somewhat permanent, beyond the noise
Man maketh on the tabor of his will,
Until the small round burst, and pale he
falls.
His ear is stuff'd with the grave's earth,
yet feels
The inaudible whispers of Eternity,
While Time runs shouting to Oblivion
'In the upper fields ! I would not swell
that cry."
Thus Akinetos sat from day to day,
Absorb'd in indolent sublimity,
Reviewing thoughts and knowledge o'e*
and o'er ;
RICHARD HENGIST HORNE
35
And now he spake, now sang unto himself,
Now sank to brooding silence. From above,
While passing, Time the rock touch'd !
and it ooz'd
Petrific drops gently at first and slow.
Reclining lonely in his fix'd repose,
The Great Unmov'd unconsciously became
Attach'd to that he press'd, and gradu
ally
While his thoughts drifted to no shore a
part
O' the rock. There clung the dead excres
cence, till
Strong hands, descended from Orion,
made
Large roads, built markets, granaries, and
steep walls,
Squaring down rocks for use, and common
good.
GENIUS
FAR out at sea the sun was high,
While veer'd the wind, and flapp'd the
sail
We saw a snow-white butterfly
Dancing before the fitful gale,
Far out at sea !
The little wanderer, who had lost
His way, of danger nothing knew ;
Settled awhile upon the mast,
Then flutter'd o'er the waters blue,
Far out at sea.
Above, there gleam'd the boundless sky ;
Beneath, the boundless ocean sheen ;
Between them danced the butterfly,
The spirit-life of this vast scene,
Far out at sea.
The tiny soul then soar'd away,
Seeking the cloijds on fragile wings,
Lur'd by the brighter, purer ray
Which hope's ecstatic morning brings,
Far out at sea.
Away he sped with shimmering glee !
Scarce seen now lost yet onward
borne !
Night comes ! with wind and rain and
I he
No more will dance before the Morn,
Far out at sea.
He dies unlike his mates, I ween ;
Perhaps not sooner, or worse cross 'd ;
And he hath felt, thought, known, and seen
A larger life and hope though lost
Far out at sea I
PELTERS OF PYRAMIDS
A SHOAL of idlers, from a merchant craft
Anchor'd off Alexandria, went ashore,
And mounting asses in their headlong glee,
Round Pompey's Pillar rode with hoots and
taunts,
As men oft say, " What art thou more than
we?"
Next in a boat they floated up the Nile,
Singing and drinking, swearing senseless
oaths,
Shouting, and laughing most derisively
At all majestic scenes. A bank they reach'd,
And clambering up, play'd gambols among
tombs ;
And in portentous ruins (through whose
depths,
The mighty twilight of departed Gods,
Both sun and moon glanced furtive, as in
awe)
They hid, and whoop'd, and spat on sacred
things.
At length, beneath the blazing sun they
lounged
Near a great Pyramid. Awhile they stood
With stupid stare, until resentment grew,
In the recoil of meanness from the vast ;
And gathering stones, they with coarse
oaths and jibes
(As they would say, " What art thou more
than we?") .
Pelted the Pyramid ! But soon these men,
Hot and exhausted, sat them down to
drink
Wrangled, smok'd, spat, and laugh'd, and
drowsily
Curs'd the bald Pyramid, and fell asleep.
Night came : a little sand went drift
ing by
And morn again was in the soft blue hea
vens.
The broad slopes of the shining Pyramid
Look'd down in their austere simplicity
Upon the glistening silence of the sands
Whereon no trace of mortal dust was seea
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
SOLITUDE AND THE LILY
THE LILY
I BEND above the moving stream,
And see myself in my own dream,
Hraven passing, while I do not pass.
Something divine pertains to me,
Or I to it; reality
Escapes me on this liquid glass.
SOLITUDE
The changeful clouds that float or poise on
high,
Emhlein earth's night and day of history :
Renew'd for ever, evermore to die.
Thy life-dream is thy fleeting loveliness ;
But mine is concentrated consciousness,
A life apart from pleasure or distress.
The grandeur of the Whole
Absorbs my soul,
While my caves sigh o'er human littleness.
THE LILY
Ah, Solitude,
Of marble Silence fit abode !
I do prefer my fading face,
My loss of loveliness and grace,
With cloud-dreams ever in my view ;
Also the hope that other eyes
May share my rapture in the skies,
And, if illusion, feel it true.
THE SLAVE
A SEA-PIECE, OFF JAMAICA
BEFORE us in the sultry dawn arose
Indigo-tinted mountains ; and ere noon
We near'd an isle that lay like a fes
toon,
And shar'd the ocean's glittering repose.
We saw plantations spotted with white huts ;
Estates midst orange groves and towering
trees;
Rich yellow lawns embrown'd by soft
degrees ;
Plots of intense gold freak'd with shady nuts.
A dead hot silence tranced sea, land, and
sky :
And now a long canoe came gliding forth,
Wherein there sat an old man fierce and
swarth,
Tiger-faced, black-fang'd, and with jaun
diced eye.
Pure white, with pale blue chequer'd, and
red fold
Of head-cloth 'neath straw brim, this
Master wore ;
While in the sun-glare stood with high-
rais'd oar
A naked Image all of burnisli'd gold.
Golden his bones high-valued in the mart,
His minted muscles, and his glossy skin ;
Golden his life of action but within
The slave is human in a bleeding heart.
THE PLOUGH
A LANDSCAPE IN BERKSHIRE
ABOVE yon sombre swell of land
Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue,
With one pale streak like yellow sand,
And ver that a vein of blue.
The air is cold above the woods ;
All silent is the earth and sky,
Except with his own lonely moods
The blackbird holds a colloquy.
Over the broad hill creeps a beam,
Like hope that gilds a good man's brow,
And now ascends the nostril-stream
Of stalwart horses come to plough.
Ye rigid Ploughmen, bear in mind
Your labor is for future hours !
Advance spare not nor look behind :
Plough deep and straight with all your
powers.
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
37
Cijomag Hotodl
FROM "TORRISMOND"
IN A GARDEN BY MOONLIGHT
Veronica. Come then, a song ; a winding
gentle song,
To lead me into sleep. Let it be low
As zephyr, telling secrets to his rose,
For 1 would hear the murmuring of my
thoughts ;
And more of voice than of that other
music
That grows around the strings of quivering
lutes ;
But most of thought ; for with my mind I
listen,
And when the leaves of sound are shed upon
it,
If there 's no seed remembrance grows not
there.
So life, so death ; a song, and then a
dream !
Begin before another dewdrop fall
From the soft hold of these disturbed
flowers,
For sleep is filling up my senses fast,
And from these words I sink.
SONG
How many times do I love thee, dear ?
Tell me how many thoughts there be
In the atmosphere
Of a new-fall'n year,
Whose white and sable hours appear
The latest flake of Eternity :
So many times do I love thee, dear.
How many times do I love again ?
Tell me how many beads there are
In a silver chain
Of evening rain,
Unravell'd from the tumbling main,
And threading the eye of a yellow star :
So many times do I love again.
Elvira. She sees no longer : leave her
then alone,
Encompass'd by this round and moony
night.
A rose-leaf for thy lips, and then good
night :
So life, so death ; a song, and then a
dream !
DREAM-PEDLARY
IF there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy ?
Some cost a parting bell ;
Some a light sign,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a rose-leaf down.
If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the bell,
What would you buy ?
A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.
Such pearl from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.
But there were dreams to sell
111 didst thou buy ;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.
Dreaming a dream to prize,
Is wishing ghosts to rise ;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried well,
Which one would I ?
If there are ghosts to raise,
What shall I call
Out of hell's murky haze,
Heaven's blue pall ?
Raise my lov'd long-lost boy
To lead me to his joy.
There are no ghosts to raise ;
Out of death lead no ways ;
Vain is the call.
Know'st thou not ghosts to sue ?
No love thou hast.
Else lie, as I will do,
And breathe thy last
So out of Life's fresh crown
Fall like a rose-leaf down.
Thus are the ghosts to woo ;
Thus are all dreams made true.
Ever to last I
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
BALLAD OF HUMAN LIFE
. we wero girl and boy together,
We toss'd about the flowers
And wreath'd the blushing hours
Into a posy green and sweet.
I sought the youngest, best,
And never was at rest
Till I had laid them at thy fairy feet.
But the days of childhood they were fleet,
And the blooming sweet-briar-breath'd
weather,
When we were boy and girl together.
Then we were lad and lass together,
And sought the kiss of night
Before we felt aright,.
Sitting and singing soft and sweet. t
The dearest thought of heart
With thee 't was joy to part,
And the greater half was thine, as meet.
Still my eyelid 's dewy, my veins they beat
At the starry summer-evening weather,
When we were lad and lass together.
And we are man and wife together,
Although thy breast, once bold
With song, be clos'd and cold
Beneath flowers' roots and birds' light feet.
Yet sit I by thy tomb,
And dissipate the gloom
With songs of loving faith and sorrow sweet.
And fate and darkling grave kind dreams
do cheat,
That, while fair life, young hope, despair
and death are,
; We 're boy and girl, and lass and lad, and
man and wife together.
SONGS FROM "DEATH'S TEST-
BOOK"
I
TO SEA, TO SEA !
To sea, to sea I The calm is o'er ;
The wanton water leaps in sport,
And rattles down the pebbly shore ;
The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,
A.id unseen Mermaids' pearly song
t/oines bubbling up, the weeds among.
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar :
To sea, to sea ! the calm is o'er.
To sea, to sea ! our wide-wing'd bark
Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,
And with its shadow, fleet and dark, f
Break the cav'd Tritons' azure day,
Like mighty eagle soaring light
O'er antelopes on Alpine height.
The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,
The sails swell full. To sea, to sea !
II
DIRGE
IF thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love and all its smart,
Then sleep, dear, sleep ;
And not a sorrow
Hang any tear on your eye-lashes ;
Lie still and deep,
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
The rim o' the sun to-morrow,
In eastern sky.
But wilt thou cure thine heart
Of love and all its smart,
Then die, dear, die ;
'Tis deeper, sweeter,
Than on a rose bank to lie dreaming
With folded eye ;
And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love's stars, thou 'It meet her
In eastern sky.
Ill
ATHULF'S DEATH SONG
A CYPRESS-BOUGH, and a rose-wreath sweety
A wedding-robe, and a winding-sheet,
A bridal-bed and a bier.
Thine be the kisses, maid,
And smiling Love's alarms ;
And thou, pale youth, be laid
In the grave's cold arms.
Each in his own charms,
Death and Hymen both are here j
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear :
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the toinb.
Now tremble dimples on your cheek,
Sweet be your lips to taste and speak,
For he who kisses is near :
THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES
39
By her the bridegod fair,
In youthful power and force ;
By him the grizard bare,
Pale knight on a pale horse,
To woo him to a corpse.
Death and Hymen both are here ;
So up with scythe and torch,
And to the old church porch,
While all the bells ring clear :
And rosy, rosy the bed shall bloom,
And earthy, earthy heap up the tomb.
IV
SECOND DIRGE
WE do lie beneath the grass
In the moonlight, in the shade
Of the yew-tree. They that pass
Hear us not. We are afraid
They would envy our delight,
In our graves by glow-worm night.
Come follow us, and smile as we ;
We sail to the rock in the ancient
waves,
Where the snow falls by thousands into the
sea,
And the drown'd and the shipwreck'd
have happy graves.
SONGS FROM "THE BRIDES'
TRAGEDY "
HESPERUS SINGS
POOR old pilgrim Misery,
Beneath the silent moon he sate,
A-listening to the screech owl's cry
And the cold wind's goblin prate ;
Beside him lay his staff of yew
With wither'd willow twin'd,
His scant gray hair all wet with dew,
His cheeks with grief ybrin'd ;
And his cry it was ever, alack !
Alack, and woe is me !
Anon a wanton imp astray
His piteous moaning hears,
And from his bosom steals away
His rosary of tears :
With his plunder fled that urchin elf,
And hid it in your eyes ;
Then tell me back the stolen pelf,
Give up the lawless prize ;
Or your cry shall be ever, alack I
Alack, and woe is me !
II
LOVE GOES A-HAWKING
A HO ! A ho !
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
His shafts are light as beauty's sighs,
And bright as midnight's brightest eye$
And round his starry way
The swan-wing'd horses of the skies,
With summer's music in their manes,
Curve their fair necks to zephyr's reins,
And urge their graceful play.
A ho ! A ho !
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
The sparrows flutter round his wrist,
The feathery thieves that Venus kist
And taught their morning song,
The linnets seek the airy list,
And swallows too, small pets of Spring,
Beat back the gale with swifter wing,
And dart and wheel along.
A ho ! A ho !
Love's horn doth blow,
And he will out a-hawking go.
Now woe to every gnat that skips
To filch the fruit of ladies' lips,
His felon blood is shed ;
And woe to flies, whose airy ships
On beauty cast their anchoring bite,
And bandit wasp, that naughty wight,
Whose sting is slaughter-red.
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
flo&crt
THE SONG OF THE WESTERN
MEN
A GOOD sword and a trusty hand !
A merry heart and true !
King James's men shall understand
What Cornish lads can do.
And have they fix'd the where and when ?
And shall Trelawny die ?
Here 's twenty thousand Cornish men
Will know the reason why !
Out spake their captain brave and bold,
A merry wight was he :
u If London Tower were Michael's hold,
We '11 set Trelawny free !
We '11 cross the Tamar, land to land,
The Severn is no stay,
With ' one and all, ' and hand in hand,
And who shall bid us nay ?
" And when we come to London Wall,
A pleasant sight to view,
Come forth ! come forth, ye cowards all,
Here 's men as good as you !
" Trelawny he 's in keep and hold,
Trelawny he may die ;
But here 's twenty thousand Cornish bold,
Will know the reason why ! "
MAWGAN OF MELHUACH
'TWAS a fierce night when old Mawgan
died,
Men shudder'd to hear the rolling tide :
The wreckers fled fast from the awful shore,
They had heard strange voices amid the
roar.
"Out with the boat there," some one cried,
" Will he never come ? we shall lose the tide :
His^ berth is trim and his cabin stor'd,
He 's a weary long time coming on board."
The old man struggled upon the bed :
He knew the words that the voices said ;
Wildly he shriek'd as his eyes grew dim,
He was dead ! he was dead ! when I bur
ied him."
Kark yet again to the devilish roar,
" He was nimbler once with a ship on shore ;
Come ! come ! old man, 't is a vain delay,
We must make the offing by break of day."
Hard was the struggle, but at the last,
With a stormy pang old Mawgan past,
And away, away, beneath their sight,
Gleani'd the red sail at pitch of night.
FEATHERSTONE'S DOOM
TWIST thou and twine ! in light and gloom
A spell is on thine hand ;
The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
Thy web the shifting sand.
Twine from this hour, in ceaseless toil,
On Blackrock's sullen shore ;
Till cordage of the sand shall coil
Where crested surges roar.
'T is for that hour, when, from the wave,
Near voices wildly cried ;
When thy stern hand no succor gave,
The cable at thy side.
Twist thou and twine ! in light and gloom
The spell is on thine hand ;
The wind shall be thy changeful loom,
Thy web the shifting sand.
"PATER VESTER PASCIT ILLA"
OUR bark is on the waters : wide around
The wandering wave ; above, the lonely sky.
Hush ! a young sea-bird floats, and that
quick cry
Shrieks to the levell'd weapon]s echoing
sound,
Grasps its lank wing, and on, with reckless
bound !
Yet, creature of the surf, a sheltering breast
To-night shall haunt in vain thy far-off nest,
A call unanswer'd search the rocky ground.
Lord of leviathan ! when Ocean heard
Thy gathering voice, and sought his native
breeze ;
When whales first plunged with life, and J
the proud deep
Felt unborn tempests heave in troubled
sleep ;
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER
Thou didst provide, e'en for this nameless
bird,
Home, and a natural love, amid the surging
seas.
THE SILENT TOWER OF
BOTTREAU
TINTADGEL bells ring o'er the tide,
The boy leans on his vessel side ;
He hears that sound, and dreams of home
Soothe the wild orphan of the foam.
" Come to thy God in time ! "
Thus saith their pealing chime
Youth, manhood, old age past,
" Come to thy God at last."
But why are Bottreau's ech'oes still ?
Her tower stands proudly on the hill ;
Yet the strange chough that home hath
found,
The lamb lies sleeping on the ground.
" Come to thy God in time ! "
Should be her answering chime :
Come to thy God at last I "
Should echo on the blast
The ship rode down with courses free,
The daughter of a distant sea :
Her sheet was loose, her anchor stor'd,
The merry Bottreau bells on board.
" Come to thy God in time ! "
Rung out Tintadgel chime ;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
" Come to thy God at last ! "
The pilot heard his native bells
Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ;
" Thank God," with reverent brow he cried,
" We make the shore with evening's tide."
" Come to thy God in time ! "
It was his marriage chime :
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell must ring at last.
" Thank God, thou whining knave, on land,
But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand,"
The captain's voice above the gale :
u Thank the good ship and ready sail."
" Come to thy God in time ! "
Sad grew the boding chime :
" Come to thy God at last I "
Boom'd heavy on the blast.
Uprose that sea ! as if it belli
The mighty Master's signal-word :
What thrills the captain's whitening lip ?
The death-groans of his sinking ship.
" Come to thy God in time 1 ?>
Swung deep the funeral chime :
Grace, mercy, kindness past,
" Come to thy God at last 1 "
Long did the rescued pilot tell
When gray hairs o'er his forehead fell,
While those around would heai and weep
That fearful judgment of the deep.
" Come to thy God in time ! "
He read his native chime :
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His bell rung out at last.
Still when the storm of Bottreau's waves
Is wakening in his weedy caves,
Those bells, that sullen surges hide.
Peal their deep notes beneath the tide :
" Come to thy God in time ! "
Thus saith the ocean chime :
Storm, billow, whirlwind past,
" Come to thy God at last ! "
TO ALFRED TENNYSON
THEY told me in their shadowy phrase,
Caught from a tale gone by,
That Arthur, King of Cornish praise,
Died not, and would not die.
Dreams had they, that in fairy bowers
. Their living warrior lies,
Or wears a garland of the flowers
That grow in Paradise.
I read the rune with deeper ken,
And thus the myth I trace :
A bard should rise, mid future men,
The mightiest of his race.
He would great Arthur's deeds rehearse
On gray Dundagel's shore ;
And so the King in laurell'd verse
Shall live, and die no more I
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
Uptton
(EDWARD LYTTON BULWER)
THE CARDINAL'S SOLILOQUY
FROM "RICHELIEU; OR, THE CONSPI
RACY "
Rich, [reading']. " In silence, and at night,
the Conscience feels
That life should soar to nobler ends than
Power."
So sayest thoii, sage and sober moralist !
But wert thou tried ? Sublime Philosophy,
Thou art the Patriarch's ladder, reaching
heaven,
And bright with bet&oning angels but,
alas!
We see thee, like tbe Patriarch, but in
dreams,
By the first step, dull-slumbering on the
earth.
I am not happy ! with the Titan's lust
I woo'd a goddess, and I clasp a cloud.
When I am dust, my name shall, like a star,
Shine through wan space, a glory, and a
prophet
Whereby pale seers shall from their aery
towers
Con all the ominous signs, benign or evil,
That make the potent astrologue of kings.
But shall the Future judge me by the ends
That I have wrought, or by the dubious
means
Through which the stream of my renown
hath run
Into the many-voiced uufathorn'd Time ?
Foul in its bed lie weeds, and heaps of slime,
And with its waves when sparkling in
the sun,
Ofttimes the secret rivulets that swell
Its might of waters blend the hues of
blood.
Yet are my sins not those of Circumstance,
That all-pervading atmosphere, wherein
Our spirits, like the unsteady lizard, take
The tints that color, and the food that nur
tures ?
O I ye, whose hour-glass shifts its tran
quil sands
In the unvex'd silence of a student's cell ;
Te, whose untempted hearts have never
toss'd
Upon the dark and stormy tides where life
Gives battle to the elements, and man
Wrestles with man for some slight plank,
whose weight
Will bear but one, while round the desper
ate wretch
The hungry billows roar, and the fierce Fate,
Like some huge monster, dim-seen through
the surf,
Waits him who drops ; ye safe and for
mal men,
Who write the deeds, and with unfeverish
hand
Weigh in nice scales the motives of the
Great,
Ye cannot know what ye have never tried !
History preserves only the fleshless bones
Of what we are, and by the mocking skull
The would-be wise pretend to guess the
features.
Without the roundness and the glow of life
How hideous is the skeleton ! Without
The colorings and humanities that clothe
Our errors, the anatomists of schools
Can make our memory hideous.
I have wrought
Great uses out of evil tools, and they
In the time to come may bask beneath the
light
Which I have stolen from the angry gods,
And warn their sons against the glorious
theft,
Forgetful of the darkness which it broke.
I have shed blood, but I have had no foes
Save those the State had ; if my wrath was
deadly,
'T is that I felt my country in my veins,
And smote her sons as Brutus smote his
own.
And yet I am not happy : blanch'd and
sear'd
Before my time ; breathing an air of hate,
And seeing daggers in the eyes of men,
And wasting powers that shake the thrones
of earth
In contest with the insects ; bearding kings
And brav'd by lackies ; murder at my bed ;
And lone amidst the multitudinous web,
With the dread Three, that are the Fates
who hold
EDWARD, LORD LYTTON
43
The woof and shears the Monk, the Spy,
the Headsman.
And this is power ? Alas ! I am not happy.
[Afler a pause.
And yet the Nile is fretted by the weeds
Its rising roots not up ; but never yet
J)id one least barrier by a ripple vex
MY onward tide, unswept in sport away.
Am I so ruthless then that I do hate
Them who hate me ? Tush, tush 1 I do not
hate ;
Kay, I forgive. The Statesman writes the
doom,
But the Priest sends the blessing. I for
give them,
But I destroy ; forgiveness is mine own,
Destruction is the State's ! For private life,
Scripture the guide for public, Machiavel.
Would fortune serve me if the Heaven were
wroth ?
* For chance makes half my greatness. I
was born
jneath the aspect of a bright-eyed star,
my triumphant adamant of soul
but the fix'd persuasion of success.
Ah ! here ! that spasm ! again !
How Life and Death
Do wrestle for me momently ! And yet
The King looks pale. I shall outlive the
King!
And then, thou insolent Austrian who
didst gibe
At the ungainly, gaunt, and daring lover,
Sleeking thy looks to silken Buckingham,
Thou shalt no matter ! I have outliv'd
love.
beautiful, all golden, gentle youth !
Making thy palace in the careless front
And hopeful eye of man, ere yet the soul
Hath lost the memories which (so Plato
dream'd)
Breath'd glory from the earlier star it
dwelt in
Oh, for one gale from thine exulting morn-
in g
Stirring amidst the roses, where of old
Love shook the dew-drops from his glan
cing hair !
Could I recall the past, or had not set
The prodigal treasures of the bankrupt soul
In one slight bark upon the shoreless sea ;
The yoked steer, after his day of toil,
Forgets the goad, and rests : to me alike
Or day or night Ambition baa no rest I
Shall I resign ? who can resign himself ?
For custom is ourself ; as drink and food
Become our bone and tiesh, the aliment*
Nurturing our nobler part, the mind,
thoughts, dreams,
Passions, and aims, in the revolving cycle
Of the great alchemy, at length are made
Our mind itself ; and yet the sweets of
leisure,
An honor'd home far from these base in
trigues,
An eyrie on the heaven-kiss'd heights of
wisdom.
[Taking up the book.
Speak to me, moralist 1 I '11 heed thy
counsel.
WHEN STARS ARE IN THE
QUIET SKIES
WHEN stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee ;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea !
For thoughts, like waves that glide by night,
Are stillest when they shine ;
Mine earthly love lies hush'd in light
Beneath the heaven of thine.
There is an hour when angels keep
Familiar watch o'er men,
When coarser souls are wrapp'd in sleep
Sweet spirit, meet me then !
There is an hour when holy dreams
Through slumber fairest glide ;
And in that mystic hour it seems
Thou shouldst be by my side.
My thoughts of thee too sacred are
For daylight's common beam :
I can but know thee as my star,
My angel and my dream ;
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee ;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea !
NOTB. Another lyric by Lord Lytton will be found In the BXOOHAPKICAI Norm.
44
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
iDilliam tf&monltftounc 3Hptoim
THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE
COME hither, Evan Cameron !
Come, stand beside my knee :
I hear the river roaring down
Towards the wintry sea.
There 's shouting on the mountain-side,
There 's war within the blast j
Old faces look upon me,
Old forms go trooping past :
I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.
T was I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.
I 've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,
And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy's shore.
I 've told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tam'd the Lindsays' pride ;
But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.
A traitor sold him to his foes ;
O deed of deathless shame !
I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of Assynt's name
Be it upon the mountain's side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,
Or back'd by armed men
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
Who wrong'd thy sire's renown ;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down !
They brought him to the Watergate,
Hani bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.
They set him high upon a cart,
The hangman rode below,
They drew his hands behind his back
And bar'd his noble brow.
Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash,
They cheer'd the common throng,
And blew the note with yell and shout
And bade him pass along.
It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,
To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.
There stood the Whig west-country lords,
In balcony and bow ;
There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames,
And their daughters all a-row.
And every open window
Was full as full might be
With black-rob'd Covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see !
But when he came, though pale and wan,
He look'd so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forbore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turn'd aside and wept.
But onwards always onwards,
In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant labor'd,
Till it reach'd the house of doom.
Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
And an angry cry and a hiss arose
From the heart of the tossing crowd ,
Then as the Graeme look'd upwards,
He saw the ugly smile
Of him who sold his king for gold,
The master-fiend Argyle !
The Marquis gaz'd a moment,
And nothing did he say,
But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale
And he turn'd his eyes away.
The painted harlot by his side,
She shook through every limb,
For a roar like thunder swept the street^
And hands were clench'd at him ;
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
" Back, coward, from thy place 1
WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN
For seven long years thou hast not dar'd
To look him in the face."
Had I been there with sword in hand,
And fifty Camerons by,
That day through high Dunedin's streets
Had peal'd the slogan-cry.
Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailed men,
Not all the rebels in the south
Had borne us backwards then !
Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,
Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there !
It might not be. They placed him next
Within the solemn hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were
thron'd
Amidst their nobles all.
But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,
And perjur'd traitors fill'd the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warristoun
To read the murderous doom ;
And then uprose the great Moiitrose
In the middle of the room.
" Now, by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cress
That waves above us there,
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath
And oh, that such should be !
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me,
I have not sought in battle-field
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dar'd I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown !
u There is a chamber far away
Where sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have uam'd for
me
Than by my father's grave.
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's
might,
This hand hath always striven,
And ye raise it up for a witness still
In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower,
Give every town a limb,
And God who made shall gather them :
I go from you to Him 1 "
The morning dawn'd full darkly,
The rain came flashing down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-belt
Lit up the gloomy town :
The thunder crash'd across the heaven,
The fatal hour was conn- ;
Yet aye broke in with muffled beat
The 'larum of the drum.
There was madness on the earth below
And anger in the sky,
And young and old, and rich and poor,
Came forth to see him die.
Ah, God ! that ghastly gibbet !
How dismal 't is to see
The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree !
Hark ! hark ! it is the clash of arms
The bells begin to toll -
"He is coming ! he is coming !
God's mercy on his soul ! "
One last long peal of thunder :
The clouds are clear'd away,
And the glorious sun once more looks
down
Amidst the dazzling day.
" He is coming ! he is coming ! "
Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison
To the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead,
There was lustre in his eye,
And he never walk'd to battle
More proudly than to die :
There was colo^ in his visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvell'd as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man !
He mounted up the scaffold,
And he turnM him to the crowd ;
But they dar'd not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look'd upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether
The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,
As though the thunder slept within
All else was calm and stilL
DISTINCTIVE POETS AND DRAMATISTS
The grim Geneva ministers
With anxious scowl drew near,
As you have seen the ravens flock
Around the dying deer.
He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee,
And veil'd his face for Christ's dear
grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose,
And cast his cloak away :
For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.
A beam of light fell o'er him,
Like a glory round the shriven,
And he clirnb'd the lofty ladder
As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll ;
And no man dar'd to look aloft,
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush and than a groan ;
And darkness swept across the sky
The work of death was done !
MASSACRE OF THE MACPHER-
SON
FHAIRSHON swore a feud
Against the clan M'Tavish
March'd into their land
To murder and to rafish ;
For he did resolve
To extirpate the vipers,
With four-and-twenty men,
And five-and-thirty pipers.
But when he had gone
Half-way down Strath-Canaan,
Of his fighting tail
Just three were remaiuin'.
They were all he had
To back him in ta battle :
All the rest had gone
Off to drive ta cattle.
" Fery coot ! " cried Fhairshon
So my clan disgraced is ;
Lads, we '11 need to fight
Pefore we touch ta peasties.
Here 's Mhic-Mac-Metlmsaleh
Coming wi' his f assals
Gillies seventy-three,
And sixty Dhuine'wassels 1 "
" Coot tay to you, sir !
Are you not ta Fhairshon ?
Was you coming here
To visit any person ?
You are a plackguard, sir ?
It is now six hundred
Coot long years, and more,
Since my glen was plunder'd. n
" Fat is tat you say ?
Dar you cock your peaver ?
I will teach you, sir,
Fat is coot pehavior !
You shall not exist
For another day more ;
I will shot you, sir,
Or stap you with my claymore ! "
" I am f ery glad
To learn what you mention,
Since I can prevent
Any such intention."
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh
Gave some warlike howls,
Trew his skhian-dhu,
An' stuck it in his powels.
In this fery way
Tied ta faliant Fhairshon,
Who was always thought
A superior person.
Fhairshon had a son,
Who married Noah's daughter,
And nearly spoil'd ta flood
By trinking up ta water
Which he would have done,
I at least believe it,
Had ta mixture peen
Only half Glenlivet.
This is all my tale :
Sirs, I hope 't is new t' ye !
Here 's your fery good healths.
And tainn ta whusky tuty 1
THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK
47
POETS OF QUALITY
Cf)onm# fiotoc peacock
THE MEN OF GOTHAM
LMEN three ! what men be ye ?
Gotham's three Wise Men we be.
tither in your bowl so free ?
To rake the moon from out the sea.
bowl goes trim ; the moon doth
shine ;
And our ballast is old wine :
And your ballast is old wine.
art thou, so fast adrift ?
I am he they call Old Care,
[ere on board we will thee lift.
No : I may not enter there.
~~ jrefore so ? 'T is Jove's decree
In a bowl Care may not be :
In a bowl Care may not be.
ir ye not the waves that roll ?
No : in charmed bowl we swim.
it the charm that floats the bowl ?
Water may not pass the brim.
bowl goes trim ; the moon doth
shine ;
And our ballast is old wine :
And your ballast is old wine.
THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS
VAWR
THE mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter ;
We therefore deenrd it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition ;
We met an host and quell'd it ;
We forced a strong position
And kill'd the men who held it.
On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rush'd to meet us ;
We met them, and o'erthrew them :
They struggled hard to beat us,
But we conquer'd them, and slew them.
As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king march'd forth to catch us j
His rage surpass'd all measure,
But his people could not match us.
He fled to his hall-pillars ;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sack'd his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.
We there, in strife bewildering,
Spilt blood enough to swim in :
We orphan'd many children
And widow'd many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen :
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.
We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoan'd them,
Two thousand head of cattle
And the head of him who own'd them :
Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,
His head was borne before us ;
His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus.
MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK
THREE YEARS OLD
LONG night succeeds thy little day :
O, blighted blossom ! can it be
That this gray stone and grassy clay
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee ?
The half-form'd speech of artless thought,
That spoke a mind beyond thy years,
The song, the dance by Nature taught,
The sunny smiles, the transient tears,
The symmetry of face and form,
The eye with light and life replete,
The little heart so fondly warm,
The voice so musically sweet,
These, lost to hope, in memory yet
Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling,
Shadowing with long and vain regret
The too fair promise of thy Spring.
POETS OF QUALITY
HDintljrop
THE VICAR
SOME years ago, ere time and taste
Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between
St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket
Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the parson's wicket.
Back flew the bolt of lissom lath ;
Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle,
Led the lorn traveller up the path
Through clean-clipp'd rows of box and
myrtle ;
And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray,
Upon the parlor steps collected,
Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say,
" Our master knows you ; you 're ex
pected."
Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown,
Up rose the doctor's " winsome marrow ; "
The lady laid her knitting down,
Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Bar
row.
Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,
Pundit or papist, saint or sinner,
He found a stable for his steed,
And welcome for himself, and dinner.
If, when he reach'd his journey's end,
And warm'd himself in court or college,
He had not gain'd an honest friend,
And twenty curious scraps of knowledge ;
If he departed as he came,
With no new light on love or liquor,
Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,
And not the vicarage, nor the vicar.
His talk was like a stream which runs
With rapid change from rocks to roses ;
It slipp'd from politics to puns ;
It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses ;
Beginning with the laws which keep
The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.
He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud dissent the mortal terror ;
And when, by dint of page and line,
He 'stablish'd truth or startled error,
The Baptist found him far too deep,
The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow.
And the lean Levite went to sleep
And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow.
His sermon never said or show'd
That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious.
Without refreshment on the road
From Jerome, or from Athanasius ;
And sure a righteous zeal inspir'd
The hand and head that penn'd and
plann'd them,
For all who understood admir'd,
And some who did not understand them.
He wrote too, in a quiet way,
Small treatises, and smaller verses,
And sage remarks on chalk and clay,
And hints to noble lords and nurses ;
True histories of last year's ghost ;
Lines to a ringlet or a turban ;
And trifles to the Morning Post,
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.
He did not think all mischief fair,
Although he had a knack of joking ;
He did not make himself a bear,
Although he had a taste for smoking ;
And when religious sects ran mad,
He held, in spite of all his learning.
That if a man's belief is bad,
It will not be improv'd by burning.
And he was kind, and lov'd to sit
In the low hut or garnish'd cottage,
And praise the farmer's homely wit,
And share the widow's homelier pottage,
At his approach complaint grew mild,
And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter
The clammy lips of fever smil'd
The welcome which they could not utter.
He always had a tale for me
Of Julius Csesar or of Venus ;
From him I learn'd the rule of three,
Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Qu(e genus.
I used to singe his powder'd wig,
To steal the staff he put such trust in,
And make the puppy dance a jig
When he began to quote Augustine.
PRAED LANGHORNE
49
Alack, the change ! In vain I look
For haunts in which my boyhood trifled
The level lawn, the trickling brook,
The trees I climb'd, the beds I rifled.
The church is larger than before,
You reach it by a carriage entry :
It holds three hundred people more,
And pews are fitted for the gentry.
Sit in the vicar's seat : you '11 hear
The doctrine of a gentle Johnian,
r hose hand is white, whose voice is
clear,
Whose tone is very Ciceronian.
r here is the old man laid ? Look
down,
And construe on the slab before you :
^Hicjacet Gulielmm Brown,
Vir nulld non donandus lauro."
THE NEWLY-WEDDED
Now the rite is duly done,
Now the word is spoken,
And the spell has made us one
Which may ne'er be broken ;
Rest we, dearest, in our home,
Roam we o'er the heather :
We shall rest, and we shall roam,
Sliall we not ? together.
From this hour the summer rose
Sweeter breathes to charm us ;
From this hour the winter snows
Lighter fall to harm us :
Fair or foul on land or sea
Come the wind or weather,
Best and worst, whate'er they be,
We shall share together.
Death, who friend from friend can part,
Brother rend from brother,
Shall but link us, heart and heart,
Closer to each other :
We will call his anger play,
Deem his dart a feather,
When we meet him on our way
Hand in hand together.
THEOCRITUS
'HEOCRITUS ! Theocritus ! ah, thou hadst
pleasant dreams
)f the crystal spring Burinna, and the
Haleus' murmuring streams ;
Physcus, and Neaethus, and fair Are-
thusa's fount,
Lacinion's beetling crag, and Latymnus'
woody mount ;
)f the fretted rocks and antres hoar that
overhang the sea,
id the sapphire sky and thymy plains of
thy own sweet Sicily ;
of the nymphs of Sicily, that dwelt in
oak and pine
jocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant
dreams were thine !
of the merry rustics who tend the goats
and sheep,
ind the maids who trip to milk the cows
at morning's dewy peep,
>f Clearista with her locks of brightest
sunny hair,
Xangfjornc
And the saucy girl Kunica, and sweet Chloe
kind and fair ;
And of those highly favor'd ones, Endymion
and Adonis,
Loved by Selena the divine, and the beau
teous Dionis ;
Of the silky-hair'd caprella, and the gentle
lowing kine
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant
dreams were thine !
Of the spring time, and the summer, and
the zephyr's balmy breeze ;
Of the dainty flowers, and waving elms,
and the yellow humming bees ;
Of the rustling poplar and the oak, the tam
arisk and the beech,
The dog-rose and anemone, thou hadst
a dream of each !
Of the galingale and hyacinth, and the lily s
snowy hue,
The couch-grass, and green maiden-hair,
and celandine pale blue,
The gold-bedropt cassidony, the fern, and
sweet woodbine
5
THE ROISTERERS
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant
dreams were thine !
Of the merry harvest-home, all beneath the
good green tree,
The poppies and the spikes of corn, the
shouting and the glee
Of the lads so blithe and healthy, and the
girls so gay and neat,
And the dance they lead around the tree
with ever twinkling feet ;
And the bushy piles of lentisk to rest the
aching brow,
And reach and pluck the damson down from
the overladen bough,
And munch the roasted bean at ease, and
quaff the Ptelean wine
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant
dreams were thine !
And higher dreams were thine to dream
of Heracles the brave,
And Polydeukes good at need, and Castor
strong to save ;
Of Dionysius and the woe he wrought the
Theban king ;
And of Zeus the mighty centre of Olympus*
glittering ring ;
Of Tiresias, the blind old man, the fam'd
Aonian seer ;
Of Hecate, and Cthonian Dis, whom all
mankind revere ;
And of Daphnis lying down to die beneath
the leafy vine
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant
dreams were thine !
But mostly sweet and soft thy dreams
of Cypris' loving kiss,
Of the dark-haired maids of Corinth, and
the feasts of Sybaris ;
Of alabaster vases of Assyrian perfume,
Of ebony, and gold, and pomp, and softly-
curtain'd room ;
Of Faunus piping in the woods to the Sa
tyrs' noisy rout,
And the saucy Panisks mocking him with
many a jeer and flout ;
And of the tender-footed Hours, and
Pieria's tuneful Nine
Theocritus ! Theocritus ! what pleasant
dreams were thine !
THE ROISTERERS
fticljarfc
25arljam
("THOMAS INGOLDSBY")
THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS
THE Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair !
Bishop and abbot and prior were there ;
Many a monk, and many a friar,
Many a knight, and many a squire,
With a great many more of lesser degree,
In sooth, a goodly company ;
And they serv'd the Lord Primate on
bended knee.
Never, I ween,
Was a prouder seen,
Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams,
Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of
Rheims !
In and out
Through the motley rout,
That little Jackdaw kept hopping about ;
Here and there
Like a dog in a fair,
Over comfits and cates,
And dishes and plates,
Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall,
Mitre and crosier ! he hopp'd upon all !
With a saucy air,
He perch'd on the chair
Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat,
In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat ;
And he peer'd in the face
Of his Lordship's Grace,
With a satisfied look, as if he would say,
"We two are the greatest folks here to
day ! "
And the priests, with awe,
As such freaks they saw,
Said, " The Devil must be in that little
Jackdaw!"
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
The feast was over, the board was clear'd,
The ilawns and the custards had all disap-
pear'd,
And six little Singing-boys, dear little
souls !
In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,
Came in order due,
Two by two,
Marching that grand refectory through.
A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Einbuss'd and fill'd. with water, as pure
As any that Hows between Rheims and
Namur,
Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch
In a tine golden hand-basin made to match.
Two nice little boys, rather more grown,
Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Co
logne ;
And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap,
Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope.
One little boy more
A napkin bore,
Of the best white diaper, fringed with
pink,
And a Cardinal's hat mark'd in " permanent
ink."
The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight
Of these nice little boys dress'd all in white :
From his finger he draws
His costly turquoise ;
And, not thinking at all about little Jack
daws,
Deposits it straight
By the side of his plate,
While the nice little boys on his Eminence
wait ;
Till, when nobody 's dreaming of any such
thing,
That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring !
There 's a cry and a shout,
And a deuce of a rout,
And nobody seems to know what they 're
about,
But the monks have their pockets all turn'd
inside out ;
The friars are kneeling,
And hunting, and feeling
carpet, the floor, and tt*5 walls, and the
ceiling.
The Cardinal drew
Off each plum-color'd shoe,
Lnd left his red stockings expos'd to the
view:
He peeps, and he feels
In tlie toes and the heels ;
They turn up the dishes, they turn up
the plates,
They take up the poker and poke out the
pates,
They turn up the rugs,
They examine the mu^s :
But no ! no such thing ;
They can't find THK RING !
And the Abbot declar'd that, " when no-
body twigg'd it,
Some rascal or other had popp'd in and
prigg'd it 1 "
The Cardinal rose with a dignified look,
He call'd for his candle, his bell, and his
book :
In holy anger, and pious grief,
He solemnly curs'd that rascally thief !
He curs'd him at board, he curs'd him
in bed,
From the sole of his foot to the crown of
his head !
He curs'd him in sleeping, that every
night
He should dream of the devil, and wake
in a fright ;
He curs'd him in eating, he curs'd him
in drinking,
He curs'd him in coughing, in sneezing,
in winking ;
He curs'd him in sitting, in standing, in
iy n g ;
He curs'd him in walking, in riding, in
flying ;
He curs'd him in living, he curs'd him
in dying !
Never was heard such a terrible curse !
But what gave rise
To no little surprise,
Nobody seeni'd one penny the worse I
The day was gone,
The night came on,
The monks and the friars they search'd tfll
dawn ;
When the sacristan saw,
On crumpled claw,
Come limping a poor little lame Jack-
daw.
No longer gay,
As on yesterday;
His feathers all seem'd to be turn'd the
wrong way;
THE ROISTERERS
His pinions droopM he could hardly
stand,
His head was as bald as the palm of your
hand ;
His eye so dim,
So wasted each limb,
That, heedless of grammar, they all cried,
" THAT 's HIM !
That 's the scamp that has done this scanda
lous thing !
That 's the thief that has got my Lord
Cardinal's Ring ! "
The poor little Jackdaw,
When the monks he saw,
Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw ;
And turu'd his bald head, as much as to
say,
" Pray, be so good as to walk this way ! "
Slower and slower
He limp'd on before,
Till they came to the back of the belfry-
door,
Where the first thing they saw,
Midst the sticks and the straw,
Was the RING, in the nest of that little
Jackdaw.
Then the great Lord Cardinal calPd for his
book,
And off that terrible curse he took ;
The mute expression
Serv'd in lieu of confession,
And, being thus coupled with full resti
tution,
The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !
When those words were heard,
That poor little bird
Was so changed in a moment, 't was really
absurd.
He grew sleek and fat ;
In addition to that,
A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a
mat.
His tail waggled more
Even than before ;
But no longer it wagg'd with an impudent
air,
No longer he perch'd on the Cardinal's
chair.
He hopp'd now about
With a gait devout ;
At matins, at vespers, he never was out ;
And, so far from any more pilfering deeds,
He always seem'd telling the Confessor's
beads.
If any one lied, or if any one swore,
Or slumber'd in pray'r-time and happen'd
to snore,
That good Jackdaw
Would give a great " Caw ! "
As much as to say, " Don't do so any more ! "
While many remark'd, as his manners they
saw,
That they " never had known such a pious
Jackdaw ! "
He long liv'd the pride
Of that country side,
And at last in the odor of sanctity died ;
When, as words were too faint
His merits to paint,
The Conclave determin'd to make him a
Saint ;
And on newly-made Saints and Popes, as
you know,
It's the custom, at Rome, new names to
bestow,
So they canoniz'd him by the name of Jen?
Crow!
MR. BARNEY MAGUIRE'S AC
COUNT OF THE CORONATION
OCH ! the Coronation ! what celebration
For emulation can with it compare ?
When to Westminster the Royal Spinster,
And the Duke of Leiuster, all in order
did repair !
'Twas there you'd see the New Polishe-
men
Make a scrimmage at half after four,
And the Lords and Ladies, and the Miss
O'Gradys,
All standing round before the Abbey
door.
Their pillows scorning, that self-same morn
ing
Themselves adorning, all by the caudle-
light,
With roses and lilies, and daffy-down-dil-
lies
And gould and jewels, and rich di'monds
bright.
And then approaches five hundred coaches,
With Gineral Dullbeak. Och ! 'twas
mighty fine
To see how asy bould Corporal Casey,
With his sword drawn, prancing made
them kape the line.
RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM
53
Then the Guns' alarums, and the King of
Arums,
All in his Garters and his Clarence shoes,
Opening the massy doors to the bould Am-
bassydors,
The Prince of Potboys, and great hay-
then Jews :
'T would have made you crazy to see Ester-
hazy
All jooPs from his jasey to his di'mond
boots,
With Alderman Harmer, and that swate
charmer
The famale heiress, Miss Anja-ly Coutts.
And Wellington, walking with his swoord
drawn, talking
To Hill and Hardinge, haroes of great
fame :
And Sir De Lacy, and the Duke Dalmasey
(They call'd him Sowlt afore he changed
his name),
Themselves presading Lord Melbourne,
lading
The Queen, the darling, to her royal chair,
And that fine ould fellow, the Duke of Pell-
Mello,
The Queen of Portingal's Chargy-de-fair.
Then the noble Prussians, likewise the
Russians,
In fine laced jackets with their goulden
cuffs,
And the Bavarians, and the proud Hunga
rians,
And Everythingarians all in furs and
muffs.
Then Misther Spaker, with Misther Pays
the Quaker,
All in the gallery you might persave ;
But Lord Brougham was missing, and gone
a-fishing,
Ounly crass Lord Essex would not give
him lave.
There was Baron Alten himself exalting,
And Prinee Von Schwartzenburg, and
many more ;
Och ! I 'd be bother'd and entirely smoth-
er'd
To tell the half of 'em was to the fore ;
With the swate Peeresses, in their crowns
and dresses,
And Aklermanesses, and the Boord of
Works;
But Mehemet Ali said, quite giutaly
" I 'd be proud to see the likes amr
Turks ! "
likes among the
Then the Queen, Heaven bless her t och I
they did dress her
In her purple garaments and her goulden
Crown ;
Like Venus, or Hebe, or the Queen of
Sheby,
With eight young ladies houlding op her
gown.
Sure 't was grand to see her, also for to he-ar
The big drums bating, and the trumpets
blow,
And Sir George Smart ! Oh ! he play'd a
Consarto,
With his four and twenty fiddlers all on
a row.
Then the Lord Archbishop held a goulden
dish up,
For to resave her bounty and great
wealth,
Saying, " Plase your glory, great Queen
Vic-tory,
Ye '11 give the Clargy lave to drink your
health ! "
Then his Riverence, retrating, discoors'd
the mating :
" Boys I Here 's your Queen ! deny it if
you can ;
And if any bould traitor, or infarior cray-
thur
Sneezes at that, I 'd like to see the man ! "
Then the Nobles kneeling to the Pow'rt
appealing,
" Heaven send your Majesty a glorious
reign ! "
And Sir Claudius Hunter he did confront
her,
All in his scarlet gown and goulden
chain.
The great Lord May'r, too, sat in his chair
too,
But mighty sarious, looking fit to cry,
For the Earl of Surrey, all in his hurry,
Throwing the thirteens, hit him in his
eye.
Then there was preaching, and good store
of speeching,
With Dukes and Marquises on bended
knee;
THE ROISTERERS
And they did splash her with real Macas-
shur,
And the Queen said, " Ah ! then thank ye
all for me ! "
Then the trumpets braying, and the organ
playing,
And the sweet trombones, with their sil
ver tones ;
But Lord Rolle was rolling ; 't was
mighty consoling
To think his Lordship did not break his
bones !
Then the crames and custard, and the beef
and mustard,
All on the tombstones like a poultherer's
shop ;
With lobsters and white-bait, and other
swate-meats,
And wine and nagus, and Imparial Pop !
There was cakes and apples in all the
Chapels,
With fine polonies, and rich mellow
pears,
Och ! the Count Von Strogonoff, sure he
got prog enough,
The sly ould Divil, undernathe the stairs.
Then the cannons thunder'd, and the people
wonder 'd,
Crying, "God save Victoria, our Royal
" Queen!"
Och ! if myself should live to be a hun
dred,
Sure it 's the proudest day that I '11 have
seen !
And now, I 've ended, what I pretended,
This narration splendid in swate poe-thry,
Ye dear bewitcher, just hand the pitcher,
Faith, it 's myself that 's getting dhry.
THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY
THERE was a lady liv'd at Leith,
A lady very stylish, man ;
And yet* in spite of all her teeth,
She fell in love with an Irishman
A nasty, ugly Irishman,
A wild, tremendous Irishman,
A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping,
ranting, roaring Irishman.
His face was no ways beautiful,
For with small-pox 't was scarr'd across;
And the shoulders of the ugly dog
Were almost double a yard across.
Oh, the lump of an Irishman,
The whiskey-devouring Irishman,
The great he-rogue with his wonderful
brogue the fighting, rioting Irish
man.
One of his eyes was bottle-green,
And the other eye was out, my dear ;
And the calves of his wicked-looking legs
Were more than two feet about, my dear.
Oh, the great big Irishman,
The rattling, battling Irishman
The stamping, ramping, swaggering, stag
gering, leathering swash of an Irish
man.
He took so much of Lundy-foot
That he used to snort and snuffle O I
And in shape and size the fellow's neck
Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo.
Oh, the horrible Irishman,
The thundering,blundering Irishman
The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing,
thrashing, hashing Irishman.
His name was a terrible name, indeed,
Being Timothy Thady Mulligan ;
And whenever he emptied his tumbler of
punch
He'd not rest till he fill'd it full
again.
The boozing, bruising Irishman,
The 'toxicated Irishman
The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy,
brandy, no dandy Irishman.
This was the lad the lady lov'd,
Like all the girls of quality ;
And he broke the skulls of the men of
Leith,
Just by the way of jollity.
Oh, the leathering Irishman,
The barbarous, savage Irishman
The hearts of the maids, and the gentle
men's heads, were bother'd I 'm sure
by this Irishman.
MAGINN MAHONY
55
THE SOLDIER-BOY
I GIVE my soldier-boy a blade,
In fair Damascus fashion'd well ;
Who first the glittering falchion sway'd,
Who first beneath its fury fell,
I know not ; but I hope to know
That for no mean or hireling trade,
To guard no feeling base or low,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
Cool, calm, and clear, the lucid flood
In which its tempering work was done
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood,
Be thou whene'er it sees the sun.
For country's claim, at honor's call,
For outraged friend, insulted maid,
At mercy's voice to bid it fall,
I give my soldier-boy a blade.
The eye which mark'd its peerless edge,
The hand that weigh'd its balanced
poise.
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and
noise
And still the gleaming sword remains ;
So, when in dust I Tow am laid,
Remember by these heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier-boy a blade.
jprancig
("FATHER PROUT")
THE SHANDON BELLS
Sabbata pango ;
Fvnera plango ;
Solemnia clango.
INSCRIPTION ON AN OLD
WITH deep affection
And recollection
I often think of
Those Shandon bells,
Whose sounds so wild would,
In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle
Their magic spells.
On this I ponder
Where'er I wander,
And thus grow fonder,
Sweet Cork, of thee,
With thy bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
I Ve heard bells chiming
Full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in
Cathedral shrine,
While at a glibe rate
Brass tongues would vibrate
But all their music
Spoke naught like thine ;
For memory, dwelling
On each proud swelling
Of the belfry, knelling
Its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
I Ve heard bells tolling
Old Adrian's Mole in,
Their thunder rolling
From the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious
Swinging uproarious
In the gorgeous turrets
Of Notre Dame ;
But thy sounds were sweeter
Than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber,
Pealing solemnly :
Oh ! the bells of Shandon
Sound far more grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
There 's a bell in Moscow ;
While on tower and kiosk oh !
In Saint Sophia
The Turkman gets,
And loud in air
Calls men to prayer,
From the tapering summit
Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
I freely grant them ;
But there 's an anthem
More dear to me :
'T is the bells of Shandon,
That sound so grand on
The pleasant waters
Of the river Lee.
WALKER COLERIDGE
MEDITATIVE POETS
n&flltom
DEATH'S ALCHEMY
THEY say that thou wert lovely on thy bier,
More lovely than in life ; that when the
thrall
Of earth was loos'd, it seem'd as though a
pall
Of years were lifted, and thou didst appear
Such as of old amidst thy home's calm
sphere
Thou sat'st, a kindly Presence felt by all
W&lket
TO THE NAUTILUS
WHERE Ausonian summers glowing
Warm the deep to life and joyance,
And gentle zephyrs, nimbly blowing,
Wanton with the waves that flowing
By many a land of ancient glory,
And many an isle renown'd in story,
Leap along with gladsome buoyance,
There, Marinere,
Dost thou appear
In faery pinnace gaily flashing,
Through the white foam proudly dash
ing*
The joyous playmate of the buxom breeze,
The fearless fondling of the mighty seas.
Thou the light sail boldly spreadest,
O'er the furrow'd waters gliding,
Thou nor wreck nor foeman dreadest,
Thou nor helm nor compass needest,
While the sun is bright above thee,
While the bounding surges love thee :
In their deepening bosoms hiding
Thou canst not fear,
Small Marinere,
For though the tides with restless motion'
Bear thee to the desert ocean,
Far as the ocean stretches to the sky,
'T is all thine own, 't is all thy empery.
In
joy or grief, from morn to evening-
fall,
The peaceful Genius of that mansion dear.
Was it the craft of all-persuading Love
That wrought this marvel ? or is Death in-
A mighty master, gifted from above
With alchemy benign, to wounded hearts
Minist'ring thus, by quaint and subtle arts,
Strange comfort, whereon after-thought
may feed ?
Lame is art, and her endeavor
Follows nature's course but slowly,
Guessing, toiling, seeking ever,
Still improving, perfect never ;
Little Nautilus, thou showest
Deeper wisdom than thou knowest,
Lore, which man should study lowly :
Bold faith and cheer,
Small Marinere,
Are thine within thy pearly dwelling :
Thine, a law of life compelling,
Obedience, perfect, simple, glad and free,
To the great will that animates the sea.
THE BIRTH OF SPEECH
WHAT; was't awaken'd first the untried
ear
Of that sole man who was all human kind ?
Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind,
Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere ?
The four mellifluous streams which flow'd so
near,
Their lulling murmurs all in one combin'd ?
The note of bird unnam'd ? The startled
hind
Bursting the brake in wonder, not in fear,
Of her new lord ? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet ?
HARTLEY COLERIDGE
57
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,
Making' sweet music out of air as sweet,
Or his own voice awake him with its sound ?
WHITHER?
WHITHER is gone the wisdom and the power
That ancient sages scatter'd with the notes
Of thought-suggesting lyres ? The music
floats
In the void air ; e'en at this breathing hour,
In every cell and every blooming bower
The sweetness of old lays is hovering still :
But the strong soul, the self-constraining
will,
The rugged root that bare the winsome
Sower
Is weak and wither'd. Were we like the
Fays
That sweetly nestle in the foxglove bells,
Or lurk and murmur in the rose-lipp'd shells
Which Neptune to the earth for quit-rent
pays,
Then might our pretty modern Philomels
Sustain our spirits with their roundelays.
TO SHAKESPEARE
THE soul of man is larger than the sky,
Deeper than ocean or the abysmal dark
Of the unfathom'd centre. Like that Ark
Which in its sacred hold uplifted high,
O'er the drown'd hills, the human family,
And stock reserv'd of every living kind,
So, in the compass of the single mind,
The seeds and pregnant forms in essence lie,
That make all worlds. Great Poet, 't was
thy art
To know thyself, and in thyself to be
Whate'er love, hate, ambition, destiny,
Or the firm, fatal purpose of the heart,
Can make of Man. let thou wert still the
same,
Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame.
IDEALITY
THE vale of Tempe had in vain been fair,
Green Ida never deem'd the nurse of Jove ;
Each fabled stream, beneath its covert
grove,
Had idly murmur'd to the idle air ;
The shaggy wolf had kept his horrid lair
In Delphi's cell, and old Trophonitts*
cave,
And the wild wailing of the Ionian wave
Had never blended with the sweet de
spair
Of Sappho's death-song : if the tight in-
spir'd
Saw only what the visual organs show,
If heaven-born phantasy no more requir'd
Thau what within the sphere of sense may
grow.
The beauty to perceive of earthly things,
The mounting soul must heavenward prune
her wings.
SONG
SHE is not fair to outward view
As many maidens be,
Her loveliness I never knew
Until she smil'd on me ;
Oh! then I saw her eye was bright,
A well of love, a spring of light.
But now her looks are coy and cold,
To mine they ne'er reply,
And yet I cease not to behold
The love-light in her eye :
Her very frowns are fairer far
Than smiles of other maidens are.
PRAYER
BE not afraid to pray to pray is right
Pray, if thou canst, with hope; but ever
pray,
Though hope be weak, or sick with long
delay ;
Pray in the darkness, if there be no light.
Far is the time, remote from human sight,
When war and discord on the earth shall
cease ;
Yet every prayer for universal peace
Avails the blessed time to expedite.
Whate'er is good to wish, ask that of
Heaven,
Though it be what thou canst not hope to
see :
Pray to be perfect, though material leaven
ForbicFthe spirit so on earth to be;
But if for any wish thou darest not pray,
Then pray to God to cast that wish awmj.
MEDITATIVE POETS
"MULTUM DILEXIT"
SHE sat and wept beside His feet; the weight
Of siuoppress'd her heart; for all the blame,
And the poor malice of the worldly shame,
To her was past, extinct, and out of date :
Only the sin remain 'd, the leprous state ;
She would be melted by the heat of love,
By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove
And purge the silver ore adulterate.
She sat and wept, and with her untress'd
hair
Still wip'd the feet she was so bless'd to
touch ;
And He wip'd off the soiling of despair
From her sweet soul, because she lov'd so
much.
I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears :
Make me a humble thing of love and
tears.
Stnna
TAKE ME, MOTHER EARTH
TAKE me, Mother Earth, to thy cold breast,
And fold me there in everlasting rest !
The long day is o'er,
I 'm weary, I would sleep ;
But deep, deep,
Never to waken more.
I have had joy and sorrow, I have prov'd
What life could give, have lov'd, and been
belov'd ;
THY JOY IN SORROW
GIVE me thy joy in sorrow, gracious Lord,
And sorrow's self shall like to joy appear !
Although the world should waver in its
sphere
I tremble not if Thou thy peace afford ;
But, Thou withdrawn, I am but as a chord
That vibrates to the pulse of hope and fear :
Nor rest I more than harps which to the
air
THE SIGN OF THE CROSS
WHENE'ER across this sinful flesh of
mine
I draw the Holy Sign,
I am sick, and heart-sore,
And weary; let me sleep ;
But deep, deep,
Never to waken more.
To thy dark chamber, Mother Earth, I
come,
Prepare thy dreamless bed in my last home;
Shut down the marble door,
And leave me ! Let me sleep ;
But deep, deep,
Never to waken more !
Must answer when we place their tuneful
board
Against the blast, which thrill unmeaning
woe
Even in their sweetness. So no earthly wing
E'er sweeps me but to sadden. Oh, place
Thou
My heart beyond the world's sad vibrat
ing
And where but in Thyself ? Oh, circle me,
That I may feel no touches save of Thee.
jftetmim
All good thoughts stir within me, and re
new
Their slumbering strength divine ;
Till there springs up a courage high and true
To suffer and to do.
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN
59
And who shall say, but hateful spirits
around,
For their brief hour unbound,
Shudder to see, and wail their overthrow ?
While on far heathen ground
Sonic lonely Saint hails the fresh odor,
though
Its source he cannot know.
ENGLAND
TYRE of the West, and glorying in the name
More than in Faith's pure fame 1
trust not crafty fort nor rock renown'd
Earn'd upon hostile ground ;
Yielding Trade's master-keys, at thy proud
will
lock or loose its waters, England ! trust
not still.
thine own power ! Since haughty
Babel's prime,
[igh towers have been man's crime,
iince her hoar age, when the huge moat
^^ lay bare,
Strongholds have been man's snare.
Thy nest is in the crags; ah, refuge frail !
Mad counsel in its hour, or traitors, will
prevail.
He who scann'd Sodom for His righteous
men
Still spares thee for thy ten ;
But, should vain tongues the Bride of
Heaven defy,
He will not pass thee by ;
For, as earth's kings welcome their spotless
guest,
So gives He them by turn, to suffer or be
blest.
REVERSES
WHEN mirth is full and free,
Some sudden gloom shall be ;
When haughty power mounts high,
The Watcher's axe is nigh.
All growth has bound ; when greatest found,
It hastes to die.
When the rich town, that long
Has lain its huts among,
Uprears its pageants vast,
And vaunts it shall not last I
1 Bright tints that shine are but a sign
Of summer past.
And when thine eye surveys,
With fond adoring gaze,
And yearning heart, thy friend,
Love to its grave doth tend.
All gifts below, save Truth, but grow
Towards an end.
THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD
LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling
gloom,
Lead Thou me on !
The night is dark, and I am far from
home
Lead Thou me on !
Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see
The distant scene, one step enough for
me.
I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I lov'd to choose and see my path ; but
now
Lead Thou me on !
I lov'd the garish day, and, spite of
fears,
Pride rul'd my will : remember not past
years.
So long Thy power hath bless'd me, sure it
still
Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent,
till
The night is gone ;
And with the morn those angel faces
smile
Which I have lov'd long since, and lost
awhile.
THE ELEMENTS
(A TRAGIC CHORUS)
MAN is permitted much
To scan and learn
In Nature's frame ;
Till he well-nieh can tame
Brute mischiefs, and can touch
Invisible things, and turn
All warring ills to purposes of good.
Thus, as a god below,
He can control,
And harmonize, what seems amiss to flow
As sever'd from the whole
And dimly understood.
MEDITATIVE POETS
But o'er the elements
One Hand alone,
One Hand has sway.
What influence day by day
In straiter belt prevents
The impious Ocean, thrown
Alternate o'er the ever-sounding shore ?
Or who has eye to trace
How the Plague came ?
Forerun the doublings of the Tempest's
race?
Or the Air's weight and flame
On a set scale explore ?
Thus God has will'd
That man, when fully skill'd,
Still gropes in twilight dim;
Encompass'd all his hours
By fearf ullest powers
Inflexible to him.
That so he may discern
His feebleness,
And e'en for earth's success
To Him in wisdom turn,
Who holds for us the keys of either
home,
Earth and the world to come.
Cofoifcgc
FROM "PHANTASMION"
ONE FACE ALONE
ONE face alone, one face alone,
These eyes require ;
But, when that long'd-for sight is shown,
What fatal fire
Shoots through my veins a keen and liquid
flame,
That melts each fibre of my wasting frame!
One voice alone, one voice alone,
I pine to hear ;
But, when its meek mellifluous tone
Usurps mine ear,
Those slavish chains about my soul are
wound,
Which ne'er, till death itself, can be un
bound.
One gentle hand, one gentle hand,
I fain would hold ;
But, when it seems at my command,
My own grows cold ;
Then low to earth I bend in sickly swoon,
Like lilies drooping 'mid the blaze of
noon.
HE CAME UNLOOK'D FOR
HE came unlook'd for, undesir'd,
A sunrise in the northern sky,
More than the brightest dawn admir'd,
To shine and then forever fly.
His love, conferr'd without a claim,
Perchance was like the fitful blaze,
Which lives to light a steadier flame,
And, while that strengthens, fast decays.
Glad fawn along the forest springing,
Gay birds that breeze-like stir the leaves,
Why hither haste, no message bringing,
To solace one that deeply grieves ?
Thou star that dost the skies adorn,
So brightly heralding the day,
Bring one more welcome than the morn,
Or still in night's dark prison stay.
AS YONDER LAMP
As yonder lamp in my vacated room
With arduous flame disputes the darksome
night,
And can, with its involuntary light,
But lifeless things that near it stand, illume; j
Yet all the while it doth itself consume
And, ere the sun begin its heavenly height
With courier beams that meet the shep-j
herd's sight,
There, whence its life arose, shall be its)
tomb :
WHITEHEAD STERLING
61
So wastes my life away. Perforce conftn'd
To common things, a limit to its sphere,
It shines on worthless trifles undesign'd,
SHAKESPEARE
How little fades from earth when sink to
rest
The hours and cares that mov'd a great
man's breast !
Though naught of all we saw the grave may
spare,
His life pervades the world's impregnate air;
Though Shakespeare's dust beneath our
footsteps lies,
His spirit breathes amid his native skies ;
With meaning won from him forever glows
Each air that England feels, and star it
knows ;
His whisper'd words from many a mother's
voice
Can make her sleeping child in dreams re
joice,
And gleams from spheres he first conjoin'd
to earth
Are blent with rays of each new morning's
birth.
Amid the sights and tales of common things,
Leaf, flower, and bird, and wars, and deaths
of kings,
Of shore, and sea, and nature's daily round,
Of life that tills, and tombs that load the
ground,
His visions mingle, swell, command, pace
And haunt with living presence heart and
eye;
And tones from him by other bosoms caught
Awaken flush and stir of mounting thought,
And the long sigh, and deep impassion'd
thrill,
Rouse custom's trance, and spur the falter
ing will.
Above the goodly land more his than ours
He sits supreme enthron'd in skyey towers,
And sees the heroic brood of his creation
Teach larger life to his ennobled nation.
shaping brain ! O flashing fancy's hues !
boundless heart kept fresh by pity's
dews !
With fainter ray each hour impriaon'd here.
Alas ! to know that the consuming miiul
Shall leave its lamp cold, ere the sun appear!
O wit humane and blithe 1 O sense sublime
For each dim oracle of mantled Time I
Transcendent Form of Man 1 in whom we
read
Mankind's whole tale of Impulse, Thought,
and Deed ;
Amid the expanse of years beholding thee t
We know how vast our world of life may be ;
Wherein, perchance, with aims as pure as
thine,
Small tasks and strengths may be no let!
divine.
LOUIS XV
THE King with all his kingly train
Had left his Pompadour behind,
And forth he rode in Senart's wood
The royal beasts of chase to find.
That day by chance the Monarch mused,
And turning suddenly away,
He struck alone into a path
That far from crowds and courtiers lay.
He saw the pale green shadows play
Upon the brown untrodden earth ;
He saw the birds around him flit
As if he were of peasant birth ;
He saw the trees that know no king
But him who bears a woodland axe ;
He thought not, but he look'd about
Like one who skill in thinking lacks.
Then close to him a footstep fell,
And glad of human sound was he,
For truth to say he found himself
A weight from which he fain would flee.
But that which he would ne'er have guese'd
Before him now most plainly came ;
The man upon his weary back
A coffin bore of rudest frame.
"Why, who art thou?" exclaim'd the
King,
" And what is that I see thee bear ?
" I am a laborer in the wood,
And 't is a coffin for Pierre.
62
MEDITATIVE POETS
Close by the royal hunting-lodge
You may have often seen him toil ;
But he will never work again,
And I for him must dig the soil."
The laborer ne'er had seen the King,
And this he thought was but a man,
Who made at first a moment's pause,
And then anew his talk began :
" I think I do remember now,
He had a dark and glancing eye,
And I have seen his slender arm
With wondrous blows the pick-axe ply.
" Pray tell me, friend, what accident
Can thus have kill'd our good Pierre ? "
"Oh! nothing more than usual, Sir,
He died of living upon air.
'T was hunger kill'd the poor good man,
Who long on empty hopes relied ;
He could not pay gabell and tax,
And feed his children, so he died."
The man stopp'd short, and then went
on,
" It is, you know, a common thing ;
Our children's bread is eaten up
By Courtiers, Mistresses, and King."
The King look'd hard upon the man,
And afterwards the coffin eyed,
Then spurr'd to ask of Pompadour,
How came it that the peasants died.
TO A CHILD
DEAR child ! whom sleep can hardly tame,
As live and beautiful as flame,
Thou glancest round my graver hours
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers
Were not by mortal forehead worn,
But on the summer breeze were borne,
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves
Caine glistening down from dreamy caves.
With bright round cheek, amid whose glow
Delight and wonder come and go,
And eyes whose inward meanings play,
Congenial with the light of day,
And brow so calm, a home for Thought
Before he knows his dwelling wrought ;
Though wise indeed thou seemest not,
Thou brightenest well the wise man's loto
That shout proclaims the undoubting mind,
That laughter leaves no ache behind ;
And in thy look and dance of glee,
Unforced, unthought of, simply free,
How weak the schoolman's formal art
Thy soul and body's bliss to part !
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord,
In gaze and glance, in voice and word.
In spite of all foreboding fear,
A thing thou art of present cheer ;
And thus to be belov'd and known
As is a rushy fountain's tone,
As is the forest's leafy shade,
Or blackbird's hidden serenade :
Thou art a flash that lights the whole ;
A gush from Nature's vernal soul.
And yet, dear Child ! within thee lives
A power that deeper feeling gives,
That makes thee more than light or air,
Than ail things sweet and all things fair ;
And sweet and fair as aught may be,
Diviner life belongs to thee,
For 'mid thine aimless joys began
The perfect Heart and Will of Man.
Thus what thou art foreshows to me
How greater far thou soon shalt be ;
And while amid thy garlands blow
The winds that warbling come and go s
Ever within not loud but clear
Prophetic murmur fills the ear,
And says that every human birth
Anew discloses God to earth.
3[ane
TO A SWALLOW BUILDING
UNDER OUR EAVES
THOU too hast traveled, little fluttering
thing
Hast seen the world, and now thy weary wing
Thou too must rest.
But much, my little bird, couldst thou but
tell,
I'd give to know why here thou lik'st so well
To build thy" nest.
JANE CARLYLE TRENCH
For thou hast pass'd fair places in thy flight;
A world lay all beneath thee where to light;
And, strange thy taste,
Of all the varied scenes that met thine eye,
Of all the spots for building 'neath the sky,
To choose this waste.
)id fortune try thee ? was thy little purse
jrchance run low, and thou, afraid of
worse,
Felt here secure ?
no ! thou need'st not gold, thou happy
one !
know'st it not. Of all God's crea
tures, man
Alone is poor.
was it, then ? some mystic turn of
thought
Jaught under German eaves, and hither
brought,
Marring thine eye
Tor the world's loveliness, till thou art
grown
sober thing that dost but mope and moan,
Not knowing why ?
Nay, if thy mind be sound, 1 need not
ask,
Since here I see thee working at thy Uk
With wing and beak.
A well-laid scheme doth that small head
contain,
At which thou work'st, brave bird, with
might and main,
Nor more need'st seek.
In truth, I rather take it thou hast got
By instinct wise much sense about thy lot,
And hast small care
Whether an Eden or a desert be
Thy home, so thou remainst alive, and
free
To skim the air.
God speed thee, pretty bird ; may thy small
nest
With little ones all in good time be blest.
I love thee much ;
For well thou managest that life of thine,
While I ! Oh, ask not what I do with
mine 1
Would I were such 1
AFTER THE BATTLE
WE crown'd the hard-won heights at
length,
Baptiz'd in flame and fire ;
We saw the foeman's sullen strength,
That grimly made retire
Saw close at hand, then saw more far
Beneath the battle-smoke
The ridges of his shatter'd war,
That broke and ever broke.
But one, an English household's pride,
Dear many ways to me,
Who climb'd that death-path by my side,
I sought, but could not see.
Last seen, what time our foremost rank
That iron tempest tore ;
He touch'd, he scal'd the rampart bank
Seen then, and seen no more.
to Crenel)
One friend to aid, I measur'd back
With him that pathway dread ;
No fear to wander from our track
Its waymarks English dead.
Light thicken'd : but our search wti
crown'd,
As we too well divin'd ;
And after briefest quest we found
What we most fear'd to find.
His bosom with one death-shot riven,
The warrior-boy lay low ;
His face was turn'd unto the heaven,
His feet unto the foe.
As he had fallen upon the plain,
Inviolate he lay ;
No ruffian spoiler's hand profane
Had touch'd that noble clay.
And precious things he still retain'd,
Which, by one distant hearth,
MEDITATIVE POETS
Lov'd tokens of the lov'd, had gain'd
A worth beyond all worth.
I treasur'd these for them who yet
Knew not their mighty wo ;
I softly seal'd his eyes, and set
One kiss upon his brow.
A decent grave we scoop'd him, where
Less thickly lay the dead,
And decently compos'd him there
Within that narrow bed.
O theme for manhood's bitter tears :
The beauty and the bloom
Of less than twenty summer years
Shut in that darksome tomb !
Of soldier-sire the soldier-son ;
Life's honor'd eventide
One lives to close in England, one
In maiden battle died :
And they, that should have been the
mourn'd,
The mourners' parts obtain :
Such thoughts were ours, as we return'd
To earth its earth again.
Brief words we read of faith and prayer
Beside that hasty grave ;
Then turn'd away, and left him there,
The gentle and the brave :
I calling back with thankful heart,
With thoughts to peace allied,
Hours when we two had knelt apart
Upon the lone hillside ;
And, comforted, I prais'd the grace
Which him had led to be
An early seeker of that Face
Which he should early see.
SONNET
ALL beautiful things bring sadness, nor
alone
Music, whereof that wisest poet spake ;
Because in us keen longings they awake
After the good for which we pine and groan,
From which exil'd we make continual
moan,
Till once again we may our spirits slake
At those clear streams, which man did first
forsake,
When he would dig for fountains of his
own.
All beauty makes us sad, yet not in vain :
For who would be ungracious to refuse,
Or not to use, this sadness without pain,
Whether it flows upon us from the hues
Of sunset, from the time of stars and
dews,
From the clear sky, or waters pure of
stain ?
THE OLD BARON
HIGH on a leaf-carv'd ancient oaken chair
The Norman Baron sat within his hall,
Wearied with a long chase by wold and
mere ;
His hunting spear was rear'd against the
wall ;
Upon the hearth-stone a large wood-fire
blaz'd,
Crackled, or smok'd, or hiss'd, as the green
boughs were rais'd.
Above an arch'd and iron-studded door,
The grim escutcheon's rude devices stood ;
On each side rear'd a black and gristly
boar,
With hearts and daggers grav'd on grounds
of blood,
And deep-dyed gules o'er which plum'd hel
mets frown ;
Beneath this motto ran, " Beware ! I
trample down."
And high around were suits of armor placed,
And shields triangular, with the wild-boar's
head ;
Arrows, and bows, and swords the rafters
graced,
And red-deer's antlers their wide branches
MILLER HANMER HOUGHTON
A rough wolf's hide was nail'd upon the wall,
Its white teeth clench'd as when it in the
dell did fall.
An angel-lamp from the carv'd ceiling
hung ;
Its outstretch'd wings the blazing oil con
tain 'd,
While its long figure in the wide hall
swung,
Blackening the roof to which its arms were
chain'd ;
The iron hair fell backward like a veil,
And through the gusty door it sent a weary
The heavy arras flutter'd in the wind
That through the grated windows sweeping
came,
And in its foldings glitter'd hart and hind,
While hawk, and horse, and hound, and kir-
tled dame,
3Nm,
THE PINE WOODS
WE stand upon the moorish mountain side,
From age to age, a solemn company ;
There are no voices in our paths, but we
Hear the great whirlwinds roaring loud and
wide ;
And like the sea-waves have our boughs
replied,
From the beginning, to their stormy glee ;
The thunder rolls above us, and some tree
Moved on the curtaiu'd waves, then
shade,
Just as the fitful wind along the arraa
played.
On the oak table, filled with blood-red wine,
A silver cup of quaint engraving stood,
On which a thin-liinb'd stag of old design,
Chas'd by six long-ear'd dogs, made for a
wood ;
Sounding a horn a huntsman stood in view,
Whose swollen cheeks uprais'd the silver aa
he blew.
At the old Baron's feet a wolf-dog lay,
Watching his features with unflinching eye;
An aged minstrel, whose long locks were
gray,
On an old harp his wither'd hands did try ;
A crimson banner's rustling folds hung low,
And threw a rosy light upon his wrinkled
brow.
Smites with his bolt, yet doth the race
abide,
Answering all times ; but joyous, when the
sun
Glints on the peaks that clouds no longer
bear,
And the young shoots to flourish have be
gun,
And the quick seeds through the blue
odorous air
From the expanding cones fall one by one ;
And silence as in temples dwelleth there.
lorfc Dougluon
(RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES)
AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN
LADY
BEYOND the vague Atlantic deep,
Far as the farthest prairies sweep,
Where forest-glooms the nerve appal,
Where burns the radiant Western fall,
One duty lies on old and young,
With filial piety to guard,
As on its greenest native sward,
The glory of the English tongue.
That ample speech 1 That subtle speech I
Apt for the need of all and each :
Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend
Wherever human feelings tend.
66
MEDITATIVE POETS
Preserve its force expand its powers ;
And through the maze of civic life,
In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife,
Forget not it is yours and ours.
THE BROOK-SIDE
I WANDER'D by the brook-side,
I wander'd by the mill ;
I could not hear the brook flow,
The noisy wheel was still ;
There was no burr of grasshopper,
No chirp of any bird,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
I sat beneath the elm-tree ;
J watch'd the long, long shade,
And, as it grew still longer,
I did not feel afraid ;
For I listen'd for a footfall,
I listen'd for a word,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
He came not, no, he came not
The night came on alone,
The little stars sat, one by one,
Each on his golden throne ;
The evening wind pass'd by my cheek,
The leaves above were stirr'd,
But the beating of my own heart
Was all the sound I heard.
Fast silent tears were flowing,
When something stood behind ;
A hand was on my shoulder,
I knew its touch was kind :
It drew me nearer nearer,
We did not speak one word,
For the beating of our own hearts
Was all the sound we heard.
jf ramcg 3Unne feem&fe
THE BLACK WALL-FLOWER
I FOUND a flower in a desolate plot,
Where no man wrought, by a deserted
cot,
Where no man dwelt ; a strange, dark-
color'd gem,
Black heavy buds on a pale leafless stem.
I pluck'd it, wondering, and with it hied
To my brave May, and showing it I cried :
" Look, what a dismal flower ! did ever
bloom,
Born of our earth and air, wear such a
gloom ?
It looks as it should grow out of a tomb :
Is it not mournful ? " " No," replied the
child ;
And, gazing on it thoughtfully, she smil'd.
She knows each word of that great book of
God,
Spread out between the blue sky and the
sod :
" There are no mournful flowers they are
all glad ;
This is a solemn one, but not a sad."
Lo ! with the dawn the black buds open'd
slowly.
Within each cup a color deep and holy,
As sacrificial blood, glow'd rich and red,
And through the velvet tissue mantling
spread ;
While in the midst of this dark crimson
heat
A precious golden heart did throb and
beat ;
Through ruby leaves the morning light did
shine,
Each mournful bud had grown a flow'r di
vine ;
And bitter sweet to senses and to soul,
A breathing came from them, that fill'd the
whole
Of the surrounding tranced and sunny
air
With its strange fragrance, lil^e a silent
prayer.
Then cried I, "From the earth's whole
wreath I '11 borrow
No flower but thee ! thou exquisite type of
sorrow ! "
KEMBLE ALFORD MITFORD
FAITH
BETTER trust all and be deceiv'd,
And weep that trust, and that deceiv
ing*
LADY MARY
THOU wert fair, Lady Mary,
As the lily in the sun :
And fairer yet thou mightest be,
Thy youth was but begun :
Thine eye was soft and glancing,
Of the deep bright blue ;
And on the heart thy gentle words
Fell lighter than the dew.
They found thee, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Even as thou hadst been praying,
At thine hour of rest :
The cold pale moon was shining
On thy cold pale cheek ;
And the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.
They carv'd thee, Lady Mary,
All of pure white stone,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
In the chancel all alone :
And I saw thee when the winter moon
Shone on thy marble cheek,
When the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.
But thou kneelest, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Among the perfect spirits,
In the land of rest
Than doubt one heart that, if belie vM,
Had blessed one's life with true believing.
Oh, in this mocking world, too fast
The doubting fiend overtakes our youth I
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.
Thou art even as they took thee
At thine hour of prayer,
Save the glory that is on thee
From the sun that shineth there.
We shall see thee, Lady Mary,
On that shore unknown,
A pure and happy angel
In the presence of the throne ;
We shall see thee when the light divine
Plays freshly on thy cheek,
And the resurrection morning
Hath just begun to break.
COLONOS
COLONOS ! can it be that thou hast still
Thy laurel and thine olives and thy vine ?
Do thy close-feather'd nightingales yet trill
Their warbles of thick-sobbing song divine ?
Does the gold sheen of the crocus o'er thee
shine
And dew-fed clusters of the daffodil,
And round thy flowery knots Cephisua
twine,
Aye oozing up with many a bubbling rill ?
Oh, might I stand beside thy leafy knoll,
In sight of the far-off city-towers, and see
The faithful-hearted pure Antigone
Toward the dread precinct, leading sad and
slow
That awful temple of a kingly soul,
Lifted to heaven by unexampled woe I
THE ROMAN LEGIONS
OH, aged Time ! how far, and long,
Travell'd have thy pinions strong,
Since the masters of the world
fl^itforti
Here their eagle-wings unfurl'd.
Onward as the legions pass'd,
Was heard the Roman trumoet's blast,
And see the mountain portals old
Now their opening gates unfold.
63
MEDITATIVE POETS
Slow moves the Consul's car between
Bright glittering helms and axes keen ;
O'er moonlit rocks, and ramparts bare,
High the Pretorian banners glare.
Afar is heard the torrent's moan,
The winds through rifted caverns groan
The vulture's huge primeval nest,
Wild toss'd the pine its shatter'd crest ;
Darker the blackening forest frown'd :
Strange murmurs shook the trembling
ground.
In the old warrior's midnight dream
Gigantic shadows seem'd to gleam,
The Caudine forks, and Cannae's field
Again their threatening cohorts yield.
Seated on the Thunderer's throne,
He saw the shapes of gods unknown,
Saw in Olympus' golden hall
The volleyed lightning harmless fall,
The great and Capitolian lord
Dim sink, 'mid nameless forms abhorr'd.
Shook the Tarpeian cliff ; around
The trembling Augur felt the sound ;
Saw, God of Light ! in deathly shade,
Thy rich, resplendent tresses fade,
And from the empty car of day
The ethereal coursers bound away.
Then frequent rose the signal shrill,
Oft heard on Alba's echoing hill,
Or down the Apulian mountains borne,
The mingled swell of trump and horn ;
The stern centurion frown'd to hear
Unearthly voices murmuring near ;
Back to his still and Sabine home
Fond thoughts and favorite visions roam.
Sweet Vesta ! o'er the woods again
He views thy small and silent fane ;
He sees the whitening torrents leap
And flash round Tibur's mountain-steep ;
Sees Persian ensigns wide unroll'd,
Barbaric kings in chains of gold ;
O'er the long Appian's crowded street,
Sees trophied arms and eagles meet,
Through the tall arch their triumph pour,
Till rose the trumpet's louder roar ;
From a thousand voices nigh
Burst on his ear the banner-cry,
And o'er the concave rocks, the sound
AVRELIVS," smote with stern rebound.
WRITTEN IN EDINBURGH
EVEN thus, methinks, a city rear'd should
be,
Yea, an imperial city, that might hold
Five times an hundred noble towns in fee,
And either with their might of Babel old,
Or the rich Roman pomp of empery
Might stand compare, highest in arts en-
roll'd,
Highest in arms ; brave tenement for the
free,
Who never crouch to thrones, or sin for gold.
Thus should her towers be rais'd with
vicinage
Of clear bold hills, that curve her very
streets,
As if to vindicate, 'mid choicest seats
Of art, abiding Nature's majesty ;
And the broad sea beyond, in calm or rage
Chainless alike, and teaching Liberty.
Cljoniag SDc CJere
AN EPICUREAN'S EPITAPH
WHEN from my lips the last faint sigh is
blown
By Death, dark waver of Lethean plumes,
1 press not then with monumental
stone
This forehead smooth, nor weigh me down
with glooms
From green bowers, gray with dew,
Of Rosemary and Rue.
Choose for my bed some bath of sculptur'd
marble
Wreath'd with gay nymphs ; and lay me
not alone
AUBREY THOMAS DE VERB
69
Where sunbeams fall, flowers wave, and
li^lit birds warble,
To those who lov'd me murmuring in soft
tone,
" Here lies our friend, from pain secure and
cold ;
And spreads his limbs in peace under the
suii-warm'd mould 1 "
FLOWERS I WOULD BRING
FLOWERS I would bring if flowers could
make thee fairer,
And music, if the Muse were dear to thee ;
(For loving these would make thee love the
bearer)
But sweetest songs forget their melody,
And loveliest flowers would but conceal the
wearer :
A rose I mark'd, and might have pluck'd ;
but she
Blush'd as she bent, imploring me to spare
her,
Nor spoil her beauty by such rivalry.
Alas ! and with what gifts shall I pursue
thee,
What offerings bring, what treasures lay
before thee ;
When earth with all her floral train doth
woo thee,
And all old poets and old songs adore thee ;
And love to thee is naught ; from passionate
mood
Secur'd by joy's complacent plenitude !
HUMAN LIFE
SAD is our youth, for it is ever going,
Crumbling away beneath our very feet ;
Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing,
In current unperceiv'd because so fleet ;
Sad are our hopes for they were sweet in
sowing,
But tares, self-sown, have overtopp'd the
wheat ;
Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in
blowing ;
And still, O still, their dying breath is
sweet :
And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft
us
Of that which made our childhood sweeter
still;
And sweet our life's decline, for it hath left
us
A nearer Good to cure an older 111 :
And sweet are all things, when we learn to
prize them
Not for their sake, but Uia who granU them
or denies them.
SORROW
COUNT each affliction, whether light 01
grave,
God's messenger sent down to thee ; do
thou
With courtesy receive him ; rise and bow ;
And, ere his shadow pass thy threshold,
crave
Permission first his heavenly feet to lave ;
Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow
No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow,
Or mar thy hospitality ; no wave
Of mortal tumult to obliterate
The soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief
should be
Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate,
Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free ;
Strong to consume small troubles ; to com
mend
Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts
lasting to the end.
LOVE'S SPITE
You take a town you cannot keep ;
And, forced in turn to fly,
O'er ruins you have made shall leap
Your deadliest enemy !
Her love is yours and be it so
But can you keep it ? No, no, no I
Upon her brow we gaz'd with awe,
And lov'd, and wish'd to love, in vain \
But when the snow begins to thaw
We shun with scorn the miry plain.
Women with grace may yield : but sfc
Appear'd some Virgin Deity.
Bright was her soul as Dian's crest
Whitening on Vesta's fane its sheen :
Cold look'd she as the waveless breast
Of some stone Dian at thirteen.
Men lov'd : but hope they deein'd to be
A sweet Impossibility !
MEDITATIVE POETS
THE QUEEN'S VESPERS
HALF kneeling yet, and half reclining,
She held her harp against her knees :
Aloft the ruddy roofs were shining,
And sunset touch'd the trees.
From the gold border gleam'd like snow
Her foot : a crown enrich'd her brow :
Dark gems confin'd that crimson vest
Close-moulded on her neck and breast.
In silence lay the cloistral court
And shadows of the convent towers :
Well order'd now in stately sort
Those royal halls and bowers.
The choral chaunt had just swept by ;
Bright arms lay quivering yet on high I
Thereon the warriors gaz'd, and then
Glanced lightly at the Queen again.
While from her lip the wild hymn floated,
Such grace in those uplifted eyes
And sweet, half absent looks, they noted
That, surely, through the skies
A Spirit, they deem'd, flew forward ever
Above that song's perpetual river,
And, smiling from its joyous track,
Upon her heavenly face look'd back.
CARDINAL MANNING
I LEARN'D his greatness first at Lavington :
The inoon had early sought her bed of
brine,
But we discours'd till now each starry sign
Had sunk : our theme was one and one
alone :
* Two minds supreme," he said, " our earth
has known ;
One sang in science; one serv'd God in
song;
TO IMPERIA
THOU art not, and thou never canst be mine ;
The die of fate for me is thrown,
And thou art made
No more to me than some resplendent shade
Aquinas Dante." Slowly. in me grew
strong
A thought, " These two great minde in him
are one ;
'Lord, what shall this man do ? ' ' Later
at Rome
Beside the dust of Peter and of Paul
Eight hundred mitred sires of Christendom
In Council sat. I mark'd him 'mid them
all;
I thought of that long night in years gone by
And cried, " At last my question meets re-
SONG
SEEK not the tree of silkiest bark
And balmiest bud,
To carve her name while yet 't is dark
Upon the wood !
The world is full of noble tasks
And wreaths hard won :
Each work demands strong hearts, strong
hands,
Till day is done.
Sing not that violet-veined skin,
That cheek's pale roses,
The lily of that form wherein
Her soul reposes 1
Forth to the fight, true man ! true knight !
The clash of arms
Shall more prevail than whisper'd tale,
To win her charms.
The warrior for the True, the Right,
Fights in Love's name ;
The love that lures thee from that fight
Lures thee to shame :
That love which lifts the heart, yet leaves
The spirit free,
That love, or none, is fit for one
Man-shap'd like thee.
Flung on the canvas by old art divine ;
Or vision of shap'd stone ;
Or the far glory of some starry sign
Which hath a beauty unapproachable
To aught but sight, a throne
High in the heavens and out of reach ,
Therefore with this low speech
THOMAS BURBIDGE
_ jid thee now a long and last farewell
Ere I depart, in busy crowds to dwell,
Yet be alone.
All pleasures of this pleasant Earth be
thine !
Yea, let her servants fondly press
Unto thy feet,
Bearing all sights most fair, all scents most
sweet :
Spring, playing with her wreath of budded
vine ;
Summer, with stately tress
Prink'd with green wheat-ears and the
white corn-bine ;
And Autumn, crown'd from the yellow
forest-tree ;
And Winter, in his dress
Begemm'd with icicles, from snow dead-
white
Shooting their wondrous light ;
These be thine ever. But I ask of thee
One blessing only to beseech for me,
Forgetfulness.
IF I DESIRE
IF I desire with pleasant songs
To throw a merry hour away,
Conies Love unto me, and my wrongs
In careful tale he doth display,
And asks me how I stand for singing
While I my helpless hands am wringing.
And then another time if I
A noon in shady bower would pass,
Comes he with stealthy gestures sly
And flinging down upon the grass,
Quoth he to me : My master dear,
Think of this noontide such a year !
And if elsewhere I lay my head
On pillow with intent to sleep,
Lies Love beside me on the bed,
And gives me ancient words to keep ;
Says he : These looks, these tokens number,
May be, they '11 help you to a slumber.
every time when I would yield
An hour to quiet, comes he still ;
hunts up every sign conceal'd
And every outward sign of ill ;
And gives me his sad face's pleasures
For merriment's or sleep's or leisure's.
MOTHER'S LOVE
HE sang so wildly, did the Boy,
That you could never tell
If 't was a madman's voice you heard.
Or if the spirit of a bird
Within his heart did dwell :
A bird that dallies with his voice
Among the matted branches ;
Or on the free blue air his note
To pierce, and fall, and rise, and float,
With bolder utterance launches.
None ever was so sweet as he,
The boy that wildly sang to me ;
Though toilsome was the way and long,
He led me not to lose the song.
But when again we stood below
The unhidden sky, his feet
Grew slacker, and his note more slow,
But more than doubly sweet.
He led me then a little way
Athwart the barren moor,
And then he stayed and bade me stay
Beside a cottage door ;
I could have stayed of mine own will,
In truth, my eye and heart to fill
With the sweet sight which I saw there
At the dwelling of the cottager.
A little in the doorway sitting.
The mother plied her busy knitting,
And her cheek so softly smil'd,
You might be sure, although her gaze
Was on the meshes of the lace,
Yet her thoughts were with her child.
But when the boy had heard her voice,
As o'er her work she did rejoice,
His became silent altogether,
And slily creeping by the wall,
He seiz'd a single plume, let fall
By some wild bird of longest feather ;
And all a-tremble with his freak,
He touch'd her lightly on the cheek.
Oh, what a loveliness her eyes
Gather in that one moment's space,
While peeping round the post she spiel
Her darling's laughing face !
Oh, mother's love is glorifying,
On the cheek like sunset lying ;
In the eyes a moisten'd light,
Softer than the moon at night I
ENGLISH SONG WRITERS
EVENTIDE
COMES something down with eventide
Beside the sunset's golden bars,
Beside the floating scents, beside
The twinkling shadows of the stars.
Upon the river's rippling face,
Flash after flash the white
Broke up in many a shallow place ;
The rest was soft and bright.
By chance my eye fell on the stream ;
How many a marvellous power,
Sleeps in us, sleeps, and doth not
dream !
This knew I in that hour.
For then my heart, so full of strife,
No more was in me stirr'd ;
My life was in the river's life,
And I nor saw nor heard.
I and the river, we were one :
The shade beneath the bank,
I felt it cool ; the setting sun
Into my spirit sank.
A rushing thing in power serene
I was ; the mystery
I felt of having ever been
And being still to be.
Was it a moment or an hour ?
I knew not ; but I mourn'd
When from that realm of awful power
I to these fields return'd.
IMltam
TIME AND DEATH
I SAW old Time, destroyer of mankind ;
Calm, stern, and cold he sate, and often
shook
And turn'd his glass, nor ever car'd to look
How many of life's sands were still behind.
And there was Death, his page, aghast to
find
How tremblingly, like aspens o'er a brook,
His blunted dart fell harmless ; so he took
IDflitltiorrti
His master's scythe, and idly smote the
wind.
Smite on, thou gloomy one, with powerless
aim !
For Sin, thy mother, at her dying breath
Wither'd that arm, and left thee but a name.
Hope clos'd the grave, when He of Naza
reth,
Who led captivity His captive, came
And vanquish'd the great conquerors, Time
and Death.
ENGLISH SONG WRITERS
(See also : B. W. PROCTER.)
CHAMPAGNE ROSE
LILY on liquid roses floating
^ So floats yon foam o'er pink champagne :
Fain would I join such pleasant boating,
And prove that ruby main,
And float away on wine !
Those seas are dangerous, graybeards
swear,
Whose sea-beach is the goblet's brim ;
And true it is they drown old care
But what care we for him,
So we but float on wine !
KEN YON WILLIAM HOWITT BAYLY
73
And true it is they cross in pain,
Who sober cross the Stygian ferry ;
But only make our Styx champagne,
And we shall cross right merry,
Floating away in wine 1
Old Charon's self shall make him mellow,
_*" gaNy row Ms boat from shore ;
U lulu we, and every jovial fellow,
Hear, unconcern'd, the oar
That dips itself in wine I
THE DEPARTURE OF THE
SWALLOW
AND is the swallow gone ?
Who beheld it?
Which way sail'd it ?
Farewell bade it none ?
No mortal saw it go :
But who doth hear
Its summer cheer
As it flitteth to and fro ?
So the freed spirit flies !
From its surrounding clay
It steals away
Like the swallow from the skies.
Whither ? wherefore doth it go ?
'Tis all unknown :
We feel alone
That a void is left below.
SHE WORE A WREATH OF
ROSES
SHE wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met ;
Her lovely face was smiling
Beneath her curls of jet.
Her footstep had the lightness,
Her voice the joyous tone, -
The tokens of a youthful heart,
Where sorrow is unknown.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of summer flowers
Upon her snowy brow.
A wreath of orange-blossoms,
When next we met, she wore ;
The expression of her features
Was more thoughtful than before ;
And standing by her side was one
Who strove, and not in vain,
To soothe her, leaving that dear home
She ne'er might view again.
I saw her but a moment,
Yet methinks I see her now,
With the wreath of orange-blossoms
Upon her snowy brow.
And once again I see that brow ;
No bridal- wreath is there,
The widow's sombre cap conceals
Her once luxuriant hair.
She weeps in silent solitude,
And there is no one near
To press her hand within his own,
And wipe away the tear.
I see her broken-hearted ;
Yet methinks I see her now,
In the pride of youth and beauty,
With a garland on her brow.
OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE
THEIR HEADS?
OH ! where do fairies hide their heads
When snow lies on the hills.
When frost has spoil'd their mossy bed%
And crystalliz'd their rills ?
Beneath the moon they cannot trip
In circles o'er the plain ;
And draughts of dew they cannot tip
Till green leaves come again.
74
ENGLISH SONG WRITERS
Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells,
They plunge beneath the waves,
Inhabiting the wreathed shells
That lie in coral caves ;
Perhaps, in red Vesuvius,
Carousals they maintain ;
And cheer their little spirits thus,
Till green leaves come again.
When they return there will be mirth,
And music in the air,
And fairy wings upon the earth,
And mischief everywhere.
The maids, to keep the elves aloof,
Will bar the doors in vain ;
No key-hole will be fairy-proof,
When green leaves come again.
THE SEA FOWLER
THE baron hath the landward park, the
fisher hath the sea ;
But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl be
long alone to me.
The baron hunts the running deer, the
fisher nets the brine ;
But every bird that builds a nest on ocean-
cliffs is mine.
Come on then, Jock and Alick, let 's to the
sea-rocks bold :
I was train'd to take the sea-fowl ere I was
five years old.
The wild sea roars, and lashes the granite
crags below,
And round the misty islets the loud, strong
tempests blow.
And let them blow ! Roar wind and wave,
they shall not me dismay ;
I 've faced the eagle in her nest and snatch'd
her young away.
The eagle shall not build her nest, proud
bird although she be,
Nor yet the strong-wing'd cormorant, with
out the leave of me.
The eider-duck has laid her eggs, the tern
doth hatch her young,
And the merry gull screams o'er her brood ;
but all to me belong.
Away, then, in the daylight, and back again
ere eve ;
The eagle could not rear her young, unless
I gave her leave.
I^otoitt
The baron hath the landward park, the
fisher hath the sea ;
But the rocky haunts of the sea-fowl be*
long alone to me.
CORNFIELDS
WHEN on the breath of autumn breeze,
From pastures dry and brown,
Goes floating like an idle thought
The fair white thistle-down,
Oh then what joy to walk at will
Upon the golden harvest hill !
What joy in dreamy ease to lie
Amid a field new shorn,
And see all round on sun-lit slopes
The pil'd-up stacks of corn ;
And send the fancy wandering o'er
All pleasant harvest-fields of yore.
I feel the day I see the field,
The quivering of the leaves,
And good old Jacob and his house
Binding the yellow sheaves ;
And at this very hour I seem
To be with Joseph in his dream.
I see the fields of Bethlehem
And reapers many a one,
Bending unto their sickles' stroke,
And Boaz looking on ;
And Ruth, the Moabite so fair,
Among the gleaners stooping there.
Again I see a little child,
His mother's sole delight,
God's living gift of love unto
The kind good Shunammite ;
To mortal pangs I see him yield,
And the lad bear him from the field.
MARY HOWITT HERVEY
75
The sun-bath'd quiet of the hills,
The fields of Galilee,
That eighteen hundred years ago
Were full of corn, I see ;
And the dear Saviour takes his way
'Mid ripe ears on the Sabbath day.
Oh, golden fields of bending corn,
How beautiful they seem !
The reaper-folk, the pil'd-up sheaves,
To me are like a dream.
The sunshine and the very air
Seem of old time, and take me there.
fjoma0 Jtibble
I THINK ON THEE
THINK on thee in the night,
When all beside is still,
the moon comes out, with her pale, sad
light,
To sit on the lonely hill ;
ii the stars are all like dreams,
And the breezes all like sighs,
there comes a voice from the far-off
streams
Like thy spirit's low replies.
think on thee by day,
'Mid the cold and busy crowd,
m the laughter of the young and gay
Is far too glad and loud.
thy soft, sad tone,
And thy young, sweet smile I see :
heart my heart were all alone,
Jut for its dreams of thee !
thee who wert so dear,
And yet I do not weep,
thine eyes were stain'd by many a tear
Before they went to sleep ;
nd, if I haunt the past,
Yet may I not repine
thou hast won thy rest, at last,
And all the grief is mine.
think upon thy gain,
Whate er to me it cost,
And fancy dwells with less of pain
On all that I have lost,
Hope, like the cuckoo's oft-told tale,
Alas, it wears her wing !
And love that, like the nightingale,
Sings only in the spring.
Thou art my spirit's all,
Just as thou wert in youth,
Still from thy grave no shadows fall
Upon my lonely truth ;
A taper yet above thy tomb,
Since lost its sweeter rays,
And what is memory, through the gloom,
Was hope, in brighter days.
I am pining for the home
Where sorrow sinks to sleep,
Where the weary and the weepers come,
And they cease to toil and weep.
Why walk about with smiles
That each should be a tear,
Yain as the summer's glowing spoils
Flung o'er an early bier ?
Oh, like those fairy things,
Those insects of the East,
That have their beauty in their wings,
And shroud it while at rest ;
That fold their colors of the sky
When earthward they alight,
And flash their splendors on the eye,
Only to take their flight ;
I never knew how dear thou wert,
Till thou wert borne away !
I have it yet about my heart,
The beauty of that day !
As if the robe thou wert to wear,
Beyond the stars, were given
That I might learn to know it there,
And seek thee out, in heaven 1
7 6
ENGLISH SONG WRITERS
TRIPPING DOWN THE FIELD-
PATH
TRIPPING down the field-path,
Early in the morn,
There I met ray own love
'Midst the golden corn ;
Autumn winds were blowing,
As in frolic chase,
All her silken ringlets
Backward from her face;
Little time for speaking
Had she, for the wind,
Bonnet, scarf, or ribbon,
Ever swept behind.
Still some sweet improvement
In her beauty shone ;
Every graceful movement
Won me, one by one !
As the breath of Venus
Seemed the breeze of morn,
Blowing thus between us,
'Midst the golden corn.
Little time for wooing
Had we, for the wind
Still kept on undoing
What we sought to bind.
Oh ! that autumn morning
In my heart it beams,
Love's last look adorning
With its dream of dreams :
Still, like waters flowing
In the ocean shell,
Sounds of breezes blowing
In my spirit dwell ;
Still I see the field-path ;
Would that I could see
Her whose graceful beauty
Lost is now to me !
TAKE THE WORLD AS IT IS
TAKE the world as it is ! there are good
and bad in it,
And good and bad will be from now to
the end ;
And they, who expect to make saints in a
minute,
Are in danger of marring more hearts
than they '11 mend.
If ye wish to be happy ne'er seek for the
faults,
Or you 're sure to find something or
other amiss ;
'Mid much that debases, and much that ' |
exalts,
The world 's not a bad one if left as it is.
Take the world as it is ! if the surface be j |
shining,
Ne'er rake up the sediment hidden be- -I
low!
There 's wisdom in this, but there 's none i|
in repining
O'er things which can rarely be mended,
we know.
There 's beauty around us, which let us (I
enjoy ;
And chide not, unless it may be with a
kiss ;
Though Earth 's not the Heaven we thought
when a boy,
There 's something to live for, if ta'eu as
it is.
Take the world as it is ! with its smiles
and its sorrow,
Its love and its friendship, its false
hood and truth,
Its schemes that depend on the breath of
to-morrow,
Its hopes which pass by like the dreams
of our youth :
Yet, oh ! whilst the light of affection may
shine,
The heart in itself hath a fountain of
bliss ;
In the worst there 's some spark of a nature
divine,
And the wisest and best take the world
as it is.
LIFE
LIFE 's not our own, 't is but a loan
To be repaid ;
Soon the dark Comer's at the door,
The debt is due : the dream is o'er,
Life 's but a shade.
Thus all decline that bloom or shine,
Both star and flower j
SWAIN COOK
77
*T is but a little odor shed,
A light gone out, a spirit lied,
A funeral hour.
Then let us show a tranquil brow
Whate'er befalls ;
That we upon life's latest brink
May look on Death's dark face, and
think
An angel calls.
THE ROSE THOU GAV'ST
THE rose thou gav'st at parting
Hast thou forgot the hour ?
The moon was on the river,
The dew upon the flower :
Thy voice was full of tenderness,
But, ah ! thy voice misleads ;
The rose is like thy promises,
Its thorn is like thy deeds.
The winter cometh bleakly,
And dark the time must be ;
Bnt I can deem it summer
To what thou 'st prov'd to me.
The snow that meets the sunlight
Soon hastens from the scene ;
But melting snow is lasting,
To what thy faith hath been.
'TWAS JUST BEFORE THE HAY
WAS MOWN
'T WAS just before the hay was mown,
The season had been wet and cold,
When my good dame began to groan,
And speak of days and years of old :
Ye were a young man then, and gay,
And raven black your handsome hair ;
Ah ! Time steals many a grace away,
And leaves us many a grief to bear.
Tush ! tush ! said I, we 've had our time,
And if 't were here again 't would go ;
The youngest cannot keep their prime,
The darkest head some gray must show.
We 've been together forty years,
And though it seem but like a day,
We 've much less cause, dear dame, for
tears,
Than many who have trod life's way.
Goodman, said she, ye 're always right,
And 't is a pride to hear your tongue ;
And though your fine old head be white,
'T is dear to me as when 't were young.
So give your hand, 't was never shown
But in affection unto me ;
And I shall be beneath the stone,
Aiid lifeless, when I love not thee.
<ii;a Cooft
THE QUIET EYE
THE orb I like is not the one
That dazzles with its lightning gleam ;
That dares to look upon the sun,
As though it challenged brighter beam.
That orb may sparkle, Hash, and roll ;
Its fire may blaze, its shaft may fly ;
But not for me : I prize the soul
That slumbers in a quiet eye.
There 's something in its placid shade
That tells of calm, unworldly thought ;
Hope may be crown'd, or joy delay'd
No dimness steals, no ray is caught.
Its pensive language seems to say,
"I know that I must close and die ; "
And death itself, come when it may,
Can hardly change the quiet eye.
There 's meaning in its steady glance.
Of gentle blame or praising love,
That makes me tremble to advance
A word, that meaning might re
prove.
The haughty threat, the fiery look,
My spirit proudly can defy,
But never yet could meet and brook
The upbraiding of a quiet eye.
There 's firmness in its even light,
That augurs of a breast sincere :
And, oh ! take watch how ye excite
That firmness till it yield a tear.
Some bosoms give an easy sigh,
Some drops of grief will freely
start,
But that which sears the o,uiet eye
Hath its deep fountain in the heart
78
ENGLISH SONG WRITERS
THE SEA-CHILD
HE crawls to the cliff and plays on a brink
Where every eye but his own would shrink ;
No music he hears but the billow's noise,
And shells and weeds are his only toys.
No lullaby can the mother find
To sing him to rest like the moaning wind ;
And the louder it wails and the fiercer it
sweeps,
The deeper he breathes and the sounder he
sleeps.
And now his wandering feet can reach
The rugged tracks of the desolate beach ;
Creeping about like a Triton imp,
To find the haunts of the crab and shrimp.
He clings, with none to guide or help,
To the furthest ridge of slippery kelp ;
And his bold heart glows while he stands
and mocks
The seamew's cry on the jutting rocks.
Few years have wan'd and now he stanc
Bareheaded on the shelving sands.
A boat is moor'd, but his young
cope
Right well with the twisted cable rope ;
He frees the craft, she kisses the tide ;
The boy has climb'd her beaten side :
She drifts she floats he shouts with
glee;
His soul hath claim'd its right on the sea.
'T is vain to tell him the howling breath
Rides over the waters with wreck and
death :
He '11 say there 's more of fear and pain
On the plague-ridden earth than the storm-
lash'd main.
'T would be as wise to spend thy power
In trying to lure the bee from the flower,
The lark from the sky, or the worm from
the grave,
As in weaning the Sea-Child from the wave.
BABY MAY
CHEEKS as soft as July peaches,
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches
Poppies paleness round large eyes
Ever great with new surprise,
Minutes fill'd with shadeless gladness,
Minutes just as brimm'd with sadness,
Happy smiles and wailing cries,
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes,
Lights and shadows swifter born
Than on wind-swept Autumn corn,
Ever some new tiny notion
Making every limb all motion
Catching up of legs and arms,
Throwings back and small alarms,
Clutching fingers straightening jerks,
Twining feet whose each toe works,
Kickings up and straining risings,
Mother's ever new surprisings,
Hands all wants and looks all wonder
At all things the heavens under,
Tiny scorns of smil'd reprovings
That have more of love than lovings,
Mischiefs done with such a winning
Archness, that we prize such sinning,
Breakings dire of plates and glasses,
Graspings small at all that passes,
Pullings off of all that 's able
To be caught from tray or table ;
Silences small meditations,
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations,
Breaking into wisest speeches
In a tongue that nothing teaches,
All the thoughts of whose possessing
Must be wooed to light by guessing ;
Slumbers such sweet angel-seemings,
That we 'd ever have such dreamings,
Till from sleep we see thee breaking,
And we 'd always have thee waking ;
Wealth for which we know no measure,
Pleasure high above all pleasure,
Gladness brimming over gladness,
Joy in care delight in sadness,
Loveliness beyond completeness,
Sweetness distancing all sweetness,
Beauty all that beauty may be
That 's May Bennett, that 's my baby.
BENNETT LAING
79
BE MINE, AND I WILL GIVE
THY NAME
BE mine, and I will give thy name
To Memory's care,
So well, that it shall breathe, with fame,
Immortal air,
That time and change and death shall
be
Scorn'd by the life I give to thee.
I will not, like the sculptor, trust
Thy shape to stone ;
That, years shall crumble into dust,
Its form unknown ;
No the white statue's life shall be
Short, to the life I '11 give to thee.
Not to the canvas worms may fret
Thy charms I '11 give ;
Soon shall the world those charms for
get,
If there they live ;
The life that colors lend shall be
Poor to the life I'll give to thee.
For t IK in shalt live, defying time
And mocking death,
In music on O life sublime I
A nation's breath ;
Love, in a people's songs, shall be
The eternal life I '11 give to thee.
A CHRISTMAS SONG
BLOW, wind, blow,
Sing through yard and shroud ;
Pipe it shrilly and loud,
Aloft as well as below ;
Sing in my sailor's ear
The song I sing to you,
" Come home, my sailor trne,
For Christmas that corned so near. "
Go, wind, go,
Hurry his home-bound sail,
Through gusts that are edged with hail,
Through winter, and sleet, and snow ;
Song, in my sailor's ear,
Your shrilling and moans shall be,
For he knows they sing him to me
And Christmas that comes so near.
SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND
(See also: AYTOUN, J. W. CARLYLE, MACAULAY, NICOLL, SCOTT)
MY AIN WIFE
I WADNA gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see ;
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see ;
A bonnier yet I 've never seen,
A better canna be
1 wadna gi'e my ain wife
For ony wife I see !
couthie is my ingle-cheek,
An' cheerie is my Jean ;
flatus
I never see her angrv look,
Nor hear her word on ane.
She 's gude wi' a' the neebours roan'
An' aye gude wi' me
I wadna gTe my ain wife
For ony wife I see.
An* O her looks sae kindlie.
They melt my heart outright,
When o'er the baby at her breast
She hangs wi' fond delight ;
She looks intill its bonnie face,
An' syne looks to me
I wadna gi'e my ain wife
tfor ony wife I see.
So
SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND
THE SOWER'S SONG
Now hands to seed-sheet, boys !
We step and we cast; old Time 's on wing;
And would ye partake of Harvest's joys,
The corn must be sown in spring.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.
Old earth is a pleasure to see
In sunshiny cloak of red and green;
The furrow lies fresh, this year will be
As years that are past have been.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.
Old earth, receive this corn,
The son of six thousand golden sires;
All these on thy kindly breast were born;
One more thy poor child requires.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.
Now steady and sure again,
And measure of stroke and step we keep;
Thus up and down we cast our grain;
Sow well and you gladly reap.
Fall gently and still, good corn,
Lie warm in thy earthy bed ;
And stand so yellow some morn,
For beast and man must be fed.
ADIEU
LET time and chance combine, combine,
Let time and chance combine;
The fairest love from heaven above,
That love of yours was mine,
My dear,
That love of yours was mine.
The past is fled and gone, and gone,
The past is fled and gone;
If naught but pain to me remain,
I '11 fare in memory on,
My dear,
I '11 fare in memory on.
The saddest tears must fall, must fall,
The saddest tears must fall;
In weal or woe, in this world below,
I love you ever and all,
My dear,
I love you ever and all.
A long road full of pain, of pain,
A long road full of pain;
One soul, one heart, sworn ne'er to
part,
We ne'er can meet again,
My dear,
We ne'er can meet again.
Hard fate will not allow, allow,
Hard fate will not allow;
We blessed were as the angels are,
Adieu forever now,
My dear,
Adieu forever now.
fcofiert 4WlfiHan
'T IS SAIR TO DREAM
'T is sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sail never see ;
Yet, oh ! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me !
I thought we sat beside the burn
That wimples down the flowery glen,
Where, in our early days o' love,
We met that ne'er sail meet again !
The simmer sun sank 'neath the wave,
And gladden'd, wi' his parting ray,
The woodland wild and valley green,
Fast fading into gloamin' grey.
He talk'd of days o' future joy,
And yet my heart was haflins sair.
GILFILLAN MOIR
81
For when his eye it beam'd on me,
A withering death-like glance was there !
I thought him dead, and then I thought
That life was young and love was free,
For o'er our heads the mavis sang,
And hameward hied the janty bee !
We pledged our love and plighted troth,
But cauld, cauld was the kiss he gave,
When starting from my dream, I found
His troth was plighted to the grave !
I canna weep, for hope is fled,
And nought would do but silent mourn,
Were 't no for dreams that should na come,
To whisper back my love's return ;
'T is sair to dream o' them we like,
That waking we sail never see;
Yet, oh ! how kindly was the smile
My laddie in my sleep gave me !
THE EXILE'S SONG
OH ! why left I my hame ?
Why did I cross the deep ?
Oh ! why left I the land
Where my forefathers sleep ?
I sigh for Scotia's shore,
And I gaze across the sea,
But I canna get a blink
O' my aiu eouutrie.
The palm-tree waveth high,
And fair the myrtle springs;
And, to the Indian maid,
The bulbul sweetly sings.
But I diuna see the broom
Wi' its tassels on the lee,
Nor hear the lintie's sang
O' my a in countrie.
Oh ! here no Sabbath bell
Awakes the Sabbath morn,
Nor song of reapers heard
Amang the yellow corn :
For the tyrant's voice is here,
And the wail of slaverie;
But the sun of freedom shines
In my ain countrie.
There 's a hope for every woe,
And a balm for every pain,
But the first joys o' our heart
Come never back again.
There 's a track upon the deep,
And a path across the sea;
But the weary ne'er return
To their ain countrie.
Datofc a$acbctl)
CASA'S DIRGE
VAINLY for us the sunbeams shine,
Dimm'd is our joyous hearth;
O Casa, dearer dust than thine
Ne'er mix'd with mother earth !
Thou wert the corner-stone of love,
The keystone of our fate ;
Thou art not ! Heaven scowls dark above,
And earth is desolate.
Ocean may rave with billows curl'd,
And moons may wax and wane,
And fresh flowers blossom ; but this world
Shall claim not thee again.
Clos'd are the eyes which bade rejoice
Our hearts till love ran o'er;
Thy smile is vanish'd, and thy voice
Silent for evermore.
Yes ; thou art gone our hearth's de
light,
Our boy so fond and dear;
No more thy smiles to glad our sight,
No more thy songs to cheer;
No more thy presence, like the sun,
To fill our home with joy:
Like lightning hath thy race been rnn,
As bright as swift, fair boy.
Now winter with its snow departs,
The green leaves clothe the tree;
But summer smiles not on the hearts
That bleed and break for thee:
The young May weaves her flowery
crown.
Her boughs in beauty wave;
They only shake their blossoms down
Upon thy silent grave.
82
SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND
Dear to our souls is every spot
Where thy small feet have trod;
There odors, breath'd from Eden, float,
And sainted is the sod;
The wild bee with its buglet fine,
The blackbird singing free,
Melt both thy mother's heart and mine:
They speak to us of thee !
Only in dreams thou comest now
From Heaven's immortal shore,
A glory round that infant brow,
Which Death's pale signet bore:
'T was thy fond looks, 't was thy fond lips,
That lent our joys their tone ;
And life is shaded with eclipse,
Since thou from earth art gone.
Thine were the fond, endearing ways,
That tenderest feeling prove ;
A thousand wiles to win our praise,
To claim and keep our love;
Fondness for us thrill'd all thy veins;
And, Casa, can it be
That nought of all the past remains
Except vain tears for thee ?
Idly we watch thy form to trace
In children on the street;
Vainly, in each familiar place,
We list thy pattering feet;
Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd,
Despair's black pinions wave;
We know that sound for ever hush'd:
We look upon thy grave.
O heavenly child of mortal birth !
Our thoughts of thee arise,
Not as a denizen of earth,
But inmate of the skies:
To feel that life renew'd is thine
A soothing balm imparts;
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine,
And Sabbath fills our hearts.
Thou leanest where the fadeless wands
Of amaranth bend o'er;
Thy white wings brush the golden sands
Of Heaven's refulgent shore.
Thy home is where the psalm and song
Of angels choir abroad,
And blessed spirits, all day long,
Bask round the throne of God.
There chance and change are not; the soul
Quaffs bliss as from a sea,
And years, through endless ages, roll,
From sin and sorrow free:
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy,
New raptures to impart;
Oh ! dare we call thee still our boy,
Who now a seraph art ?
A little while a little while
Ah ! long it cannot be !
And thou again on us wilt smile,
Where angels smile on thee.
How selfish is the worldly heart:
How sinful to deplore !
Oh ! that we were where now thou art,
Not lost, but gone before.
THE MITHERLESS BAIRN
WHEN a' ither bairnies are hush'd to their
hame,
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame,
Wha stands last an' lanely, an' sairly for-
f aim ?
'T is the puir dowie laddie the mitherless
bairn !
The mitherless bairnie creeps to his lane
bed;
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare
head;
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim,
An' lithless the lair o' the mitherless bairn.
Aneath his cauld brow, siccan dreams hover
there,
O' hands that wont kindly to kaim his dark
hair!
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an'
stern,
That lo'e na the locks o' the mitherless bairn.
The sister, wha sang o'er his saftly rock'd
bed,
Now rests in the niools whare their mammi
is laid;
'
THOM AIRD BALLANTINE
While the father toils sair his wee bannock
to earn,
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless
bairn.
Her spirit that pass'd in yon hour of his
birth
Still watches his lone lorn waud'rings on
earth,
Recording in heaven the blessings they
earn
Wha couthilie deal wi* the raitherlea*
bairn i
Oh ! speak him na harshly he trembles
the while,
He bends to your biddiu', and blesses your
smile:
In the dark hour o' anguish, the heartless
shall learn
That God deals the blow for the mitherless
bairn !
Ctjomag 3Ur&
THE SWALLOW
THE swallow, bonny birdie, comes sharp
twittering o'er the sea,
And gladly is her carol heard for the sunny
days to be ;
She shares not with us wintry glooms, but
yet, no faithless thing,
She hunts the summer o'er the earth with
wearied little wing.
The lambs like snow all nibbling go upon
the ferny hills;
Light winds are in the leafy woods, and
birds, and bubbling rills ;
Then welcome, little swallow, by our morn
ing lattice heard,
Because thou com'st when Nature bids
bright days be thy reward !
Thine be sweet mornings with the bee
that 's out for honey-dew;
And glowing be the noontide for the grass-
hopper and you;
And mellow shine, o'er day's decline, the
sun to light thee home:
What can molest thy airy nest ? sleep till
the day-spring come !
The river blue that rushes through the val
ley hears thee sing,
And murmurs much beneath the touch of
thy light-dipping wing.
The thunder -cloud, over us bowed, in
deeper gloom is seen,
When quick reliev'd it glances to thy
bosom's silvery sheen.
The silent Power, that brought thee back
with leading-strings of love
To haunts where first the summer sun fell
on thee from above,
Shall bind thee more to come aye to the
music of our leaves,
For here thy young, where thou hast sprung,
shall glad thee in our eaves.
MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG
2>alfantine
1 OH, wha hae ye brought us hame now, my
brave lord,
Strappit flaught ower his braid saddle
bow?
Some bauld Border reiver to feast at our
board,
An' herry our pantry, I trow.
He 's buirdly an' stalwart in lith an' in limb;
Gin ye were his master in war
The field was a saft enough litter for him,
Ye needna hae brought him sae far.
SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND
Then saddle an' munt again, harness an'
dunt again,
i' when ye gae hunt again, strike higher
game."
" Hoot, whisht ye, my dame, for he comes
o' gude kin,
An' boasts o' a lang pedigree ;
This night he maun share o' our gude cheer
within,
At morning's grey dawn he maun dee.
He 's gallant Wat Scott, heir o' proud
Harden Ha',
Wha ettled our lands clear to sweep ;
But now he is snug in auld Elibaiik's paw,
An' shall swing frae our donjon-keep.
Tho' saddle an' munt again, harness an'
dunt again,
I '11 ne'er when I hunt again strike higher
game."
" Is this young Wat Scott ? an' wad ye rax
his craig,
When our daughter is fey for a man ?
Gae, gaur the loun marry our muckle-
mou'd Meg,
Or we '11 ne'er get the jaud aff our han' ! "
" Od ! hear our gudewife, she wad fain save
your life ;
Wat Scott, will ye marry or hang ? "
But Meg's muckle mou set young Wat's
heart agrue,
Wha swore to the woodie he 'd gang.
Ne'er saddle nor munt again, harness nor
dunt again,
An
Wat ne'er shall hunt again, ne'er see his
hame.
Syne muckle-mou'd Meg press'd in close to
his side,
An' blinkit fu' sleely and kind,
But aye as Wat glower'd at his braw prof-
fer'd bride,
He shook like a leaf in the wind.
" A bride or a gallows, a rope or a wife ! "
The morning dawn'd sunny and clear
Wat boldly strode forward to part wi' his
life,
Till he saw Meggy shedding a tear ;
Then saddle an' munt again, harness an*
dunt again,
Fain wad Wat hunt again, fain wad be hame.
Meg's tear touch'd his bosom, the gibbet
frown'd high,
An' slowly Wat strode to his doom ;
He gae a glance round wi' a tear in his
eye,
Meg shone like a star through the gloom.
She rush'd to his arms, they were wed on
the spot,
An' lo'ed ither muckle and lang ;
Nae bauld border laird had a wife like Wat
Scott ;
'T was better to marry than hang.
So saddle an' munt again, harness an' dunt
again,
Elibank hunt again, Wat 's snug at hame.
(Compare R. BROWNING, p. 364.}
MY BATH
(Scene Kinnaird Burn, near Pitlochrie.)
COME here, good people great and small,
that wander far abroad,
To drink of drumly German wells, and
make a weary road
To Baden and to Wiesbaden, and how they
all are nam'd,
To Carlsbad and to Kissingen, for healing
virtue fam'd ;
Come stay at home, and keep your feet from
dusty travel free,
And I will show you what rare bath a good
God gave to me ;
'T is hid among the Highland hills beneath
the purple brae,
With cooling freshness free to all, nor doc
tor's fee to pay.
No craft of mason made it here, nor carpen
ter, I wot ;
Nor tinkering fool with hammering tool to
shape the charmed spot ;
But down the rocky-breasted glen the foamy
torrent falls
Into the amber caldron deep, fenced round
with granite walls.
JOHN STUART BLACKIE
Nor gilded beam, nor pictur'd dome, nor
curtain, roofs it in,
But the blue sky rests, and white clouds
float, above the bubbling linn,
Where God's own hand hath scoop'd it out
in Nature's Titan hall,
And from her cloud-fed fountains drew its
waters free to all.
Oh come and see my Highland bath, and
prove its freshening flood,
And spare to taint your skin with swathes
of druinly German mud :
Come plunge with me into the wave like
liquid topaz fair,
And to the waters give your back that
spout down bravely there ;
Then float upon the swirling flood, and, like
a glancing trout,
Plash about, and dash about, and make a
lively rout,
And to the gracious sun display the glory
of your skin,
As you dash about and splash about in the
foamy-bubbling linn.
Oh come and prove my bonnie bath ; in
sooth 't is furnish'd well
With trees, and shrubs, and spreading ferns,
all in the rocky dell,
And roses hanging from the cliff in grace
of white and red,
And little tiny birches nodding lightly over
head,
And spiry larch with purple cones, and tips
of virgin green,
And leafy shade of hazel copse with sunny
glints between :
Oh might the Roman wight be here who
praised Bandusia's well,
He 'd find a bath to Nymphs more dear in
my sweet Highland dell.
Some folks will pile proud palaces, and
some will wander far
To scan the blinding of a sun, or the blink
ing of a star ;
Some sweat through Afric's burning sands ;
and some will vex their soul
To find heaven knows what frosty prize be
neath the Arctic pole.
God bless them all ; and may they find what
thing delights them well
In east or west, or north or south, but I
at home will dwell
Where fragrant ferns their fronds uncurl,
and healthful breeze* play,
And clear brown waters grandly swirl be
neath the purple brae.
Oh come and prove my Highland bath, the
burn, and all the glen,
Hard-toiling wights in dingy nooks, and
scribes with inky pen,
Strange thoughtful men with curious quests
that vex your fretful brains,
And scheming sons of trade who fear to
count your slippery gains ;
Come wander up the burn with me, and
thread the winding glen,
And breathe the healthful power that flows
down from the breezy Ben,
And plunge you in the deep brown pool ;
and from beneath the spray
You'll come forth like a flower that blooms
'neath freshening showers in May !
THE EMIGRANT LASSIE
As I came wandering down Glen Spean,
Where the braes are green and grassy,
With my light step I overtook
A weary-footed lassie.
She had one bundle on her back,
Another in her hand,
And she walk'd as one who was full loath
To travel from the land.
Quoth I, " My bonnie lass ! " for she
Had hair of flowing gold,
And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,
Right pleasant to behold
" My bonnie lass, what aileth thee,
On this bright summer day,
To travel sad and shoeless thus
Upon the stony way ?
" I 'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,
And thou art burden'd so ;
March lightly now, and let me bear
The bundles as we go."
" No, no ! " she said, " that may not be ;
What 's mine is mine to bear ;
Of good or ill, as God may will,
I take my portion'd share."
86
SONGS AND BALLADRY OF SCOTLAND
" But you have two, and I have none j
One burden give to me ;
I '11 take that bundle from thy back
That heavier seems to be."
" No, no ! " she said ; " this, if you will,
That holds no hand but mine
May bear its weight from dear Gleu Spean
'Cross the Atlantic brine ! "
Well, well ! but tell me what may be
Within that precious load,
Which thou dost bear with such fine care
Along the dusty road ?
" Belike it is some present rare
Rrom friend in parting hour ;
Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont,
Thou tak'st with thee thy dower."
She droop 'd her head, and with her hand
She gave a mournful wave :
" Oh, do not jest, dear sir ! it is
Turf from my mother's grave ! "
I spoke no word : we sat and wept
By the road-side together ;
No purer dew on that bright day
Was dropp'd upon the heather.
THE WORKING MAN'S SONG
I AM no gentleman, not I !
No bowing, scraping thing !
I bear my head more free and high
Than titled count or king.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No, no, no !
And only to one Lord on high
My head I bow.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No vain and varnish'd thing !
And from my heart} without a die,
My honest thoughts I fling.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No, no, no !
Our stout John Knox was none and why
Should I be so ?
I am no gentleman, not I !
No mincing, modish thing,
In gay saloon a butterfly,
Some wax-doll Miss to wing.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No, no, no !
No moth, to sport in fashion's eye,
A Bond Street beau.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No bully, braggart thing,
With jockeys on the course to vie,
With bull-dogs in the ring.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No, no, no !
The working man might sooner die
Than sink so low.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No star-bedizen'd thing !
My fathers filch'd no dignity,
By fawning to a king.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No, no, no !
And to the wage of honesty
My rank I owe.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No bowing, scraping thing !
I bear my head more free and high
Than titled count or king.
I am no gentleman, not I !
No, no, no !
And thank the blessed God on high,
Who made me so 1
WILLIE WINKIE
WEE Willie Winkie rins through the town,
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-gown,
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock,
u Are the weans in their bed ? for it 's
now ten o'clock.'*
Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ?
The cat 's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin'
hen,
The doug 's spelder'd on the floor, and disna
gie a cheep ;
But here 's a waukrife laddie, that winna
fa' asleep.
MILLER MACKAY
Ony thing but sleep, ye rogue ! glow'rin'
like the moon,
Rattlin' in an aim jug wi' an aim spoon,
Runiblin', tuinblin' roun' about, era win' like
a cock,
Skirlin' like a keuna-what wauknin' sleep-
in' folk !
Hey, Willie Winkle ! the wean ' in a
creel J
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera
eel,
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a*
her thrums :
Hey, Willie Winkie ! See, there be comet!
TELL ME, YE WINGED WINDS
TELL me, ye winged winds,
That round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot
Where mortals weep no more ?
Some lone and pleasant dell,
Some valley in the west,
Where, free from toil and pain,
The weary soul may rest ?
loud wind dwindled to a whisper low,
sigh'd for pity as it answer'd, " No."
Tell me, thou mighty deep,
Whose billows round me play,
Knowst thou some favor'd spot,
Some island far away,
Where weary man may find
The bliss for which he sighs,
Where sorrow never lives,
And friendship never dies ?
loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow,
>pp'd for a while, and sigh'd to answer,
" No."
And thou, serenest moon,
That, with such lovely face,
Dost look upon the earth
Asleep in night's embrace ;
Tell me, in all thy round
Hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man
May find a happier lot ?
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe,
And a voice, sweet but sad, responded,
" No."
Tell me, my secret soul,
Oh ! tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death ?
Is there no happy spot
Where mortals may be blest,
Where grief may find a balm,
And weariness a rest ?
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons to mortals
given,
Wav'd their bright wings, and whisper'd l
" Yes, in heaven."
EARL NORMAN AND JOHN
TRUMAN
THROUGH great Earl Norman's acres wide,
A prosperous and a good land,
'T will take you fifty miles to ride
O'er grass, and corn, and woodland.
His age is sixty-nine, or near,
And I 'm scarce twenty-two, man,
And have but fifty pounds a year,
Poor John Truman !
But would I change ? I' faith ! not I,
Oh no I not I, says Truman 1
Earl Norman dwells in halls of state,
The grandest in the county ;
Has forty cousins at his gate,
To feed upon his bounty.
But then he *s deaf the doctors' care,
While I in whispers woo, man,
And find my physic in the air,
Stout John Truman !
D 'ye think I 'd change for thrice his gold ?
Oh no 1 not I, says Truman 1
Earl Norman boasts a gartered knee,
A proof of royal graces ;
I wear, by Nelly wrought for me,
A silken pair of braces.
He sports a star upon his breast,
And I a violet blue, man,
IRISH MINSTRELSY
The gift of her who loves me best,
Proud John Truman !
I 'd he myself, and not the Earl,
Oh, that would I, says Truman.
WHAT MIGHT BE DONE
WHAT might be done if men were wise
What glorious deeds, my suffering
brother,
Would they unite
In love and right,
And cease their scorn of one another ?
Oppression's heart might be imbued
With kindling drops of loving-kindness,
And knowledge pour,
From shore to shore,
Light on the eyes of mental blindness.
All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs,
All vice and crime, might die together ;
And wine and corn,
To each man born,
Be free as warmth in summer weather.
The meanest wretch that ever trod,
The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow,
Might stand erect
In self-respect,
And share the teeming world to-morrow.
What might be done ? This might be
done,
And more than this, my suffering
brother
More than the tongue
E'er said or sung 1 ,
If men were wise and lov'd each other.
IRISH MINSTRELSY
INCLUDING THE POETS OF YOUNG IRELAND
(See also: DEVERE, MAGINN, MAHONY, SIMMONS)
&mtuicl Stobcr
RORY O'MORE; OR, GOOD
OMENS
YOUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen
Bawn,
He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as
the dawn ;
He wish'd in his heart pretty Kathleen to
please,
And he thought the best way to do that
was to tease.
"Now, Rory, be aisy," sweet Kathleen
would cry
(Reproof on her lip, but a smile in her
eye),
" With your tricks I don't know, in troth,
what I 'm about,
Faith you've teas'd till I've put on my
cloak inside out."
"Oh ! jewel," says Rory, "that same is the
way
You 've thrated my heart for this many a
day;
And 't is plaz'd that I am, and why not to
be sure ?
For 't is all for good luck," says bold Rory
O'More.
" Indeed, then," says Kathleen, " don't think
of the like,
For I half gave a promise to soothering
Mike ;
The ground that I walk on he loves, I '11 be
bound."
" Faith," says Rory, I 'd rather love you
than the ground."
" Now, Rory, I '11 cry if you don't let me go ;
Sure I drame ev'ry night that I 'm hating
you so ! "
"Oh," says Rory, "that same I 'm de
lighted to hear,
For drames always go by conthrairies, my
dear ;
SAMUEL LOVER
89
Oh ! jewel, keep draining that same till
you die,
bright morning will give dirty night
the black lie !
't is plaz'd that I am, and why not, to
be sure ?
'tis all for good luck," says bold
Rory O'More.
'Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've
teas'd me enough,
I 've thrash'd for your sake Dinny
Grimes and Jim Duff ;
I've made myself, drinking your
health, quite a baste,
I think, after that, I may talk to the
praste."
;n Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round
her neck,
soft and so white, without freckle or
speck,
he look'd in her eyes that were beam
ing with light,
Lnd he kiss'd her sweet lips ; don't you
think he was right ?
Now Rory, leave off, sir ; you '11 hug me
no more,
it 's eight times to-day you have kiss'd
me before."
'Then here goes another," says he, "to
make sure,
there 's luck in odd numbers," says
Rory O'More.
WIDOW MACHREE
r iDOW Machree, it 's no wonder you frown,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
lith, it ruins your looks, that same dirty
black gown,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
How alter'd your air,
With that close cap you wear
' T is destroying your hair
Which should be flowing free ;
Be no longer a churl
Of its black silken curl,
Och hone ! Widow Machree I
Widow Machree, now the summer is come,
Och hone ! W T idow Machree,
When everything smiles, should a beauty
look glum ?
Och hone ! Widow Machrec.
See the birds go in pairs,
And the rabbits and hares
Why even the bears
Now in couples agree ;
And the mute little fish,
Though they can't spake, they wish,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
Widow Machree, and when winter
Och hone ! Widow Machree,
To be poking the fire all alone is a sin,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs,
And the kettle sings songs
Full of family glee ;
While alone with your cup,
Like a hermit, you sup,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
And how do you know, with the comforts
I 've towld,
Och hone ! Widow Machree,
But you 're keeping some poor fellow out in
the cowld ?
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
With such sins on your head
Sure your peace would be fled,
Could you sleep in your bed
Without thinking to see
Some ghost or some sprite,
That would wake you each night,
Crying, " Och hone ! Widow Ma
chree " ?
Then take my advice, darling Widow Ma
chree,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
And with my advice, faith I wish you'd
take me,
Och hone ! Widow Machree.
You 'd have me to desire
Then to sit by the fire,
And sure Hope is no liar
In whispering to me,
That the ghosts would depart,
When you 'd me near your heart,
Och hone I Widow Machree.
9
IRISH MINSTRELSY
1 SOGGARTH AROON
AM I the slave they say,
Soggarth aroon ? l
Since you did show the way,
Soggarth aroon,
Their slave no more to be,
While they would work with me
Old Ireland's slavery, -
Soggarth aroon.
Why not her poorest man,
Soggarth aroon,
Try and do all he can,
Soggarth aroon,
Her commands to fulfil
Of his own heart and will,
Side by side with you still,
Soggarth aroon ?
Loyal and brave to you,
Soggarth aroon,
Yet be not slave to you,
Soggarth aroon,
Nor, out of fear to you,
Stand up so near to you
Och ! out of fear to you,
Soggarth aroon !
Who, in the winter's night,
Soggarth aroon,
When the cold blast did bite,
Soggarth aroou,
Came to my cabin-door,
And on my earthen-floor
Knelt by me, sick and poor,
Soggarth aroou ?
Who, on the marriage day,
Soggarth aroon,
Made the poor cabin gay,
Soggarth aroon.
And did both laugh and sing,
Making our hearts to ring
At the poor christening,
Soggarth aroon ?
Who, as friend only met,
Soggarth aroon,
Never did flout me yet,
Soggarth aroon ;
And when my hearth was dim,
Gave, while his eye did brim,
What I should give to him,
Soggarth aroon ?
Och ! you, and only you,
Soggarth aroon !
And for this I was true to you,
Soggarth aroon !
Our love they '11 never shake,
When for ould Ireland's sake
We a true part did take,
Soggarth aroon !
A PLACE IN THY MEMORY
A PLACE in thy memory, Dearest !
Is all that I claim :
To pause and look back when thou nearest
The sound of my name.
Another may woo thee, nearer ;
Another may win and wear;
I care not though he be dearer,
If I am remember'd there.
Sdgart ar&n
Remember me, not as a lover
Whose hope was cross'd,
Whose bosom can never recover
The light it hath lost !
As the young bride remembers the mothei
She loves, though she never may see,
As a sister remembers a brother,
O Dearest, remember me 1
Could I be thy true lover, Dearest 1
Couldst thou smile on me,
Priest, dear.
GRIFFIN MANGAN
would be the fondest and deairst
That ever lov'd thee :
a cloud on my pathway is glooming
That never must burst upon thine ;
heaven, that made thee all blooming,
Ne'er made thee to wither on mine.
>mber me then ! O remember
My calm light love,
jugh bleak as the blasts of November
My life may prove !
hat life will, though lonely, be sweet
If its brightest enjoyment should be
smile and kind word when we meet
And a place in thy memory.
NOCTURNE
SLEEP that like the couched dove
Broods o'er the weary eye,
Dreams that with soft heavings move
The heart of memory,
Labor's guerdon, golden rest,
Wrap thee in its downy vest,
Fall like comfort on thy brain
And sing the hush song to thy pain I
Far from thee be startling fears,
And dreams the guilty dream ;
No banshee scare thy drowsy ears
With her ill-omeu'd scream ;
But tones of fairy minstrelsy
Float like the ghosts of sound o'er thee,
Soft as the chapel's distant ln-11,
And lull thee to a sweet farewell.
Ye for whom the ashy hearth
The fearful housewife clears,
Ye whose tiny sounds of mirth
The nighted carman hears,
Ye whose pygmy hammers make
The wonderers of the cottage wake,
Noiseless be your airy flight,
Silent as the still moonlight.
Silent go, and harmless come,
Fairies of the stream :
Ye, who love the winter gloom
Or the gay moonbeam,
Hither bring your drowsy store
Gather'd from the bright lusmore ;
Shake o'er temples, soft and deep,
The comfort of the poor man, sleep.
Clarence
DARK ROSALEEN
MY Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep !
ic priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
There 's wine from the royal Pope,
Upon the ocean green ;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
Shall glad your heart, shall give you
hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and
hope,
My Dark Rosaleen !
Over hills, and through dales,
Have I roam'd for your sake ;
All yesterday I sail'd with sails
On river and on lake.
The Erne, at its highest flood,
I dash'd across unseen,
For there was lightning in my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
O ! there was lightning in my blood,
Red lightning lighten'd through my blood,
My Dark Rosaleen !
All day long, in unrest,
To and fro, do I move,
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love !
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
To hear your sweet and sad complaints,
My life, my love, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen I
IRISH MINSTRELSY
Woe and pain, pain and woe,
Are my lot, night and noon,
To see your bright face clouded so,
Like to the mournful moon.
But yet will I rear your throne
Again in golden sheen ;
'T is you shall reign, shall reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
'T is you shall have the golden throne,
'T is you shall reign, and reign alone,
My Dark Rosaleen !
Over dews, over sands,
Will I fly for your weal :
Tour holy, delicate white hands
Shall girdle me with steel.
At home in your emerald bowers,
From morning's dawn till e'en,
You '11 pray for me, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My fond Rosaleen !
You '11 think of me through daylight's
hours,
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers,
My Dark Rosaleen !
I could scale the blue air,
I could plough the high hills,
O, I could kneel all night in prayer,
To heal your many ills !
And one beamy smile from you
Would float like light between
My toils and me, my own, my true,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My fond Rosaleen !
Would give me life and soul anew,
A second life, a soul anew,
My Dark Rosaleen !
O ! the Erne shall run red
With redundance of blood,
The earth shall rock beneath our tread,
And flames warp hill and wood,
And gun-peal and slogan cry
Wake many a glen serene,
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die,
My Dark Rosaleen !
My own Rosaleen !
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh,
Ere you can fade, ere you can die,
My Dark Rosaleen !
SOUL AND COUNTRY
ARISE, my slumbering soul ! arise,
And learn what yet remains for thee
To dree or do !
The signs are flaming in the skies ;
A struggling world would yet be free,
And live anew.
The earthquake hath not yet been born
That soon shall rock the lands around,
Beneath their base ;
Immortal Freedom's thunder horn
As yet yields but a doleful sound
To Europe's race.
Look round, my soul ! and see, and say
If those about thee understand
Their mission here :
The will to smite, the power to slay,
Abound in every heart and hand
Afar, anear ;
But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword
Pierce mind, as heart, in this proud year ?
O, dream it not !
It sounds a false, blaspheming word,
Begot and born of moral fear,
And ill-begot.
To leave the world a name is nought :
To leave a name for glorious deeds
And works of love,
A name to waken lightning thought
And fire the soul of him who reads,
This tells above.
Napoleon sinks to-day before
The ungilded shrine, the single soul
Of Washington :
Truth's name alone shall man adore
Long as the waves of Time shall roll
Henceforward on.
My countrymen ! my words are weak :
My health is gone, my soul is dark,
My heart is chill ;
Yet would I fain and fondly seek
To see you borne in freedom's bark
O'er ocean still.
Beseech your God ! and bide your hour I
He cannot, will not long be dumb :
Even now his tread
Is heard o'er earth with coming power ;
And coming, trust me, it will come,
Else were He dead.
LADY DUFFERIN CAROLINE NORTON
93
dina, Sabp SDufferin
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMI
GRANT
I *M sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride.
The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high,
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again ;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek :
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You never more will speak.
'T is but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near
The church where we were wed, Mary ;
I see the spire from here,
t the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest
For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.
I 'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make no new friends ;
But, oh ! they love the better still
The few our Father sends.
And you were all I had, Mary,
My blessin' and my pride :
There 's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on,
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength wu
gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawiu' there,
And you hid it for my sake ;
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore
Oh ! I 'in thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more !
I 'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary kind and true !
But I '11 not forget you, darling,
In the land I m goin' to :
They say there 's bread and work for
all,
And the sun shines always there,
But I '11 not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair !
And often in those grand old woods
I '11 sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies ;
And I '11 think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springiu' corn, and the bright MJ
morn.
When first you were my bride.
Caroline Iija6ert) araf>
(LADY STIRLING-MAXWELL)
WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TO-r
GETHER
WE have been friends together,
In sunshine and in shade ;
Since first l>eneath the chestnut-trees
In infancy we played.
But coldness dwells within thy heart,
A cloud is on thy brow ;
We have been friends together
Shall a light word part us now ?
- have been gay
Ye have laugh'd at little jests ;
94
IRISH MINSTRELSY
For the fount of hope was gushing
Warm and joyous in our breasts.
But laughter now hath fled thy lip,
And sullen glooms thy brow ;
We have been gay together
Shall a light word part us now ?
We have been sad together,
We have wept, with bitter tears,
O'er the grass-grown graves, where slum-
ber'd
The hopes of early years.
The voices which are silent there
Would bid thee clear thy brow ;
We have been sad together
Oh ! what shall part us now ?
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE
WORD was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry !)
That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pin'd for the comfort his voice would
bring ;
(Oh ! ride as though you were flying !)
Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and
pearl ;
And his rose of the isles is dying !
Thirty nobles saddled with speed,
(Hurry !)
Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need ;
(Oh ! ride as though you were flying !)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank ;
Worn-out chargers stagger'd and sank ;
Bridles were slacken'd, and girths were
burst ;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying !
His nobles are beaten, one by one ;
(Hurry !)
They have fainted, and falter'd, and home
ward gone ;
His little fair page now follows alone,
For strength and for courage trying.
The king look'd back at that faithful* child ;
Wan was the face that answering smiFd ;
They passed the drawbridge with clattering
din,
Then he dropp'd ; and only the king roc's in
Where his rose of the isles lay dy .ig !
The king blew a blast on his bugle horn ;
(Silence !)
No answer came ; but faint and forlorn
An echo return'd on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide ;
None welcom'd the king from that weary
ride ;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day 9
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearu'd for his voice while
dying !
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary.
The king return'd from her chamber of rest.
The thick sobs choking in his breast ;
And, that dumb companion eyeing,
The tears gush'd forth which he strove to
check ;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck :
" O steed that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying ! "
LOVE NOT
LOVE not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay !
Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly
flowers
Things that are made to fade and fall away
Ere they have blossom 'd for a few short
hours.
Love not !
Love not ! the thing ye love may change :
The rosy lip may cease to smile on you,
The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and
strange,
The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.
Love not !
Love not ! the thing you love may die,
May perish from the gay and gladsome
earth ;
The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, .
Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth.
Love not I
Love not ! oh warning vainly said
In present hours as in the years gone by ;
Love flings a halo round the dear ones'
head,
Faultless, immortal, till they change or die
Love not 1
IRISH MINSTRELSY
95
frantic WMct
KITTY NEIL
"An, sweet Kitty Neil, rise up from 'that
wheel,
Your neat little foot will be weary from
spinning ;
Come trip down with me to the sycamore-
tree,
Half the parish is there, and the dance
is beginning.
The sun is gone down, but the full harvest-
moon
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-
whiten'd valley,
While all the air rings with the soft, loving
things
Each little bird sings in the green
shaded alley."
With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up the
while,
Her eye in the glass, as she bound her
hair, glancing ;
'T is hard to refuse when a young lover
sues,
So she couldn't but choose to go
off to the dancing.
And now on the green the glad groups are
seen, *
Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of
his choosing ;
And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet
Kitty Neil,
Somehow, when he ask'd, she ne'er
thought of refusing.
Now, Felix Magee puts his pipes to his
knee,
And with flourish so free sets each
couple in motion ;
With a cheer and a bound, the lads patter
the ground,
The maids move around just like swans
on the ocean :
Cheeks bright as the rose feet light as
the doe's,
Now coyly retiring, now boldly ad
vancing
Search the world all round, from the sky
to the ground,
No such sight can be found as an
Irish lass dancing !
Sweet Kate ! who could view your bright
eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through their dark
lashes so mildly,
Your fair-turned arm, heaving breast,
rounded form,
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses
throb wildly j
Young Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, de
part,
Subdued by the smart of such painful
yet sweet love ;
The sight leaves his eye, as he cries with a
sigh,
" Dance light, for my heart it lies under
your feet, love ! "
A SPINNING-WHEEL SONG
MELLOW the moonlight to shine is begin
ning ;
Close by the window young Eileen is spin
ning ;
Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother,
sitting,
Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily
knitting :
" Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping."
"'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the
glass flapping."
" Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing."
" 'T is the sound, mother dear, of the sum
mer wind dying."
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the
foot 's stirring ;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden
singing.
" What 's that noise that I hear at the win
dow, I wonder?"
" 'T is the little birds chirping the holly-
bush under."
9 6
IRISH MINSTRELSY
" What makes you be shoving and moving
your stool on,
And singing all wrong that old song of
'TheCoolun?'"
There 'a a form at the casement the form
of her true-love
And he whispers, with face bent, " I 'm
waiting for you, love ;
Get up on the stool, through the lattice
step lightly,
We '11 rove in the grove while the moon 's
shining brightly."
Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring,
Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the
foot 's stirring ;
Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ring
ing,
Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden
singing.
The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays
her fingers,
Steals up from her seat longs to go, and
yet lingers ;
A frighten'd glance turns to her drowsy
grandmother,
Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel
with the other.
Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel
round ;
Slowly and slowly is heard now the reel's
sound ;
Noiseless and light to the lattice above
her
The maid steps then leaps to the arms
of her lover.
Slower and slower and slower the
wheel swings ;
Lower and lower and lower the reel
rings ;
Ere the reel and the wheel stopp'd their
ringing and moving,
Through the grove the young lovers by
moonlight are roving.
^Samuel
THE FAIRY THORN
AN ULSTER BALLAD
" GET up, our Anna dear, from the weary
spinning wheel ;
For your father 's oh the hill, and your
mother is asleep ;
Come up above the crags, and we '11 dance
a highland reel
Around the fairy thorn on the steep."
At Anna Grace's door 't was thus the maid
ens cried,
Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the
green ;
And Anna laid the sock and the weary wheel
aside,
The fairest of the four, I ween.
They 're glancing through the glimmer of
the quiet eve,
Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle
bare ;
The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song
they leave,
And the crags in the ghostly air ;
And linking hand in hand, and singing as
they go,
The maids along the hill-side have ta'en
their fearless way,
Till they come to where the rowan trees in
lovely beauty grow
Beside the Fairy Hawthorn gray.
The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall
and slim,
Like matron with her twin grand-daugh
ters at her knee ;
The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head
gray and dim
In ruddy kisses sweet to see.
The merry maidens four have ranged them
in a row,
Between each lovely couple a stately
rowan stem,
And away in mazes wavy like skimming
birds they go,
Oh, never caroll'd bird like them !
But solemn is the silence of the silvery
haze
That drinks away their voices in echoless
repose,
FERGUSON DAVIS
97
And dreamily the evening has still'd the
haunted braes,
And dreamier the gloaming grows.
And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from
the sky
When the falcon's shadow saileth across
the open shaw,
Are hush'd the maidens' voices, as cowering
down they lie
In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For, from the air above and the grassy
ground beneath,
And from the mountain-ashes and the old
white thorn between,
A power of faint enchantment doth through
their beings breathe,
And they sink down together on the
green.
They sink together silent, and, stealing side
by side,
They fling their lovely arms o'er their
drooping necks so fair,
Then vainly strive again their naked arms
to hide,
For their shrinking necks again are bare.
Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their
heads together bow'd,
Soft o'er their bosoms beating the only
human sound
They hear the silky footsteps of the silent
fairy crowd,
Like a river in the air, gliding round.
lor scream can any raise, nor prayer can
any say,
But wild, wild, the terror of the speechleM
three,
For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently
away,
By whom they dare not look to see.
They feel their tresses twine with her part
ing locks of gold,
And the curls elastic falling, as her hold
withdraws ;
They feel her sliding arms from their
tranced arms unfold,
But they dare not look to see the
cause :
For heavy on their senses the faint enchant
ment lies
Through all that night of anguish and
perilous amaze ;
And neither fear nor wonder can ope their
quivering eyes,
Or their limbs from the cold ground
raise,
Till out of night the earth has roll'd her
dewy side,
With every haunted mountain and
streamy vale below ;
When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow
morning-tide,
The maidens' trance dissolveth so.
Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they
may,
And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious
friends in vain :
They pin'd away and died within the year
and day,
And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
vOsbornr SDatoig
THE SACK OF BALTIMORE *
THE summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's
hundred isles,
The summer sun is gleaming still through
Gabriel's rough defiles ;
Old Innisherkin's crumbled fane looks like
a moulting bird,
And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean
tide is heard :
The hookers lie upon the beach ; the children
cease their play ;
The gossips leave the little inn ; the house
holds kneel to pray ;
And full of love, and peace, and. rest, iU
daily labor o'er,
Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of
Baltimore.
A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come witk
midnight there ;
Hh hurt poem.
9 8
IRISH MINSTRELSY
No sound, except that throbbing wave, in
earth, or sea, or air !
The massive capes and ruin'd towers seem
conscious of the calm ;
The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breath
ing heavy balm.
So still the night, these two long barques
round Dunashad that glide
Must trust their oars, methinks not few,
against the ebbing tide.
Oh, some sweet mission of true love must
urge them to the shore !
They bring some lover to his bride who sighs
in Baltimore.
All, all asleep within each roof along that
rocky street,
And these must be the lover's friends, with
gently gliding feet
A stifled gasp, a dreamy noise ! " The roof
is in a flame ! "
From out their beds and to their doors rush
maid and sire and dame,
And meet upon the threshold stone the
gleaming sabre's fall,
And o'er each black and bearded face the
white or crimson shawl.
The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the
prayer, and shriek, and roar :
O blessed God ! the Algerine is lord of Bal
timore !
Then flung the youth his naked hand against
the shearing sword ;
Then sprung the mother on the brand with
which her son was gor'd ;
Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his
grand-babes clutching wild ;
Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and
nestled with the child :
But see ! yon pirate strangled lies, and
crush'd with splashing heel,
While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps
his Syrian steel :
Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and
misers yield their store,
There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack
of Baltimore.
Midsummer morn in woodland nigh the
birds begin to sing,
They see not now the milking maids, de
serted is the spring ;
Midsummer day this gallant rides from dis
tant Bandon's town,
These hookers cross'd from stormy Skull,
that skiff from Affadown ;
They only found the smoking walls with
neighbors' blood besprent,
And on the strewed and trampled beach
awhile they wildly went,
Then dash'd to sea, and pass'd Cape Clear,
and saw, five leagues before,
The pirate-galley vanishing that ravaged
Baltimore.
Oh, some must tug the galley's oar, and
some must tend the steed ;
This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and
that a Bey's jerreed.
Oh, some are for the arsenals by beauteous
Dardanelles ;
And some are in the caravan to Mecca's
sandy dells.
The maid that Bandon gallant sought is
chosen for the Dey :
She 's safe she 's dead she stabb'd him
in the midst of his Serai !
And when to die a death of fire that noble
maid they bore,
She only smiled, O'Driscoll's child ; she
thought of Baltimore.
'Tis two long years since sunk the town
beneath that bloody band,
And all around its trampled hearths a larger
concourse stand,
Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling
wretch is seen :
'T is Hackett of Dungarvan he who steer'd
the Algerine !
He fell amid a sullen shout with scarce a
passing' prayer,
For he had slain the kith and kin of many
a hundred there.
Some mutter'd of MacMurchadh, who
brought the Norman o'er ;
Some curs'd him with Iscariot, that day in
Baltimore.
THE BOATMAN OF KINSALE
His kiss is sweet, his word is kind,
His love is rich to me ;
I could not in a palace find
A truer heart than he.
The eagle shelters not his nest
From hurricane and hail
More bravely than he guards my breast *
The Boatman of Kinsale.
THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS
99
The wind that round the Fastnet sweeps
Is not a whit more pure,
The goat that down Cnoc Sheehy leaps
Has not a footnore sure.
No firmer hand nor freer eye
E'er faced an autumn gale,
De Courcy's heart is not so high
The Boatman of Kinsale.
The brawling squires may heed him not,
The dainty stranger sneer,
But who will dare to hurt our cot
When Myles O'Hea is here ?
The scarlet soldiers pass along :
They 'd like, but fear to rail :
His blood is hot, his blow is strong
The Boatman of Kinsale.
His hooker 's in the Scilly van,
When seines are in the foam,
But money never made the man,
Nor wealth a happy home.
So, bless'd with love and liberty,
While he can trim a sail,
He '11 trust in God, and cling to me
The Boatman of Kinsale.
THE WELCOME
)ME in the evening, or come in the morn
ing ;
[ Come when you 're look'd for, or come with
out warning :
Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before
you,
And the oftener you come here the more
I '11 adore you !
Light is my heart since the day we were
plighted ;
.Red is my cheek that they told me was
blighted ;
! > The green of the trees looks far greener than
ever,
; And the linnets are singing, " True lovers
don't sever ! "
' I '11 pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you
choose them,
Or, after you 've kiss'd them, they '11 lie on
my bosom ;
I '11 fetch from the mountain its breeze to
inspire you ;
I '11 fetch from my fancy a tale that won't
tire you.
Oh ! your step 's like the rain to the summer-
vex'd farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without
armor ;
I '11 sing you sweet songs till the stars rise
above me,
Then, wandering, I '11 wish you in silence
to love me.
We '11 look through the trees at the cliff
and the eyrie ;
We '11 tread round the rath on the track
of the fairy ;
We '11 look on the stars, and we '11 list to
the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you
can give her :
Oh ! she '11 whisper you " Love, as un
changeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully
streaming ;
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall
quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's
river."
So come in the evening, or come in the morn
ing ;
Come when you 're looked for, or come with
out warning :
Kisses and welcome you '11 find here before
you,
And the oftener you come here the more
I '11 adore you !
Light is my heart since the day we were
plighted ;
Red is my cheek that they told me was
blighted ;
The green of the trees looks far greener
than ever,
And the linnets are singing, " True lovers
don't sever I "
IOO
IRISH MINSTRELSY
THE IRISH RAPPAREES
RIGH Shemus 1 he has gone to France, and
left his crown behind ;
111 luck be theirs, both day and night, put
running in his mind !
Lord Lucan followed after with his
Slashers brave and true,
And now the doleful keen is raised
" What will poor Ireland do ?
What must poor Ireland do ?
Our luck," they say, " has gone to France
what can poor Ireland do ? "
O, never fear for Ireland, for she has sol
diers still,
For Rory's boys are in the wood, and Re-
my's on the hill !
And never had poor Ireland more loyal
hearts than these
May God be kind and good to them, the
faithful Rapparees !
The fearless Rapparees !
The jewel were you, Rory, with your Irish
Rapparees !
O, black's your heart, Clan Oliver, and
colder than the clay !
O, high 's your head, Clan Sassenach, since
Sarsfield 's gone away !
It 's little love you bear to us for sake of
long ago ;
But hold your hand, for Ireland still can
strike a deadly blow
Can strike a mortal blow :
Och, duar-na-Crfosd ! 't is she that still
could strike a deadly blow !
The Master's bawn, thq Master's seat, a
surly bodagh fills ;
The Master's son, an outlawed man, is
riding on the hills.
But God be prais'd that round him throng,
as thick as summer bees,
The swords that guarded Limerick wall
his loyal Rapparees !
His loving Rapparees !
Who dare say no to Rory Oge, with all his
Rapparees ?
Black Billy Grimes of Latnamard, he rack'd
us long and sore
God rest the faithful hearts he broke !
we '11 never see them more ;
But I '11 go bail he '11 break no more, while
Truagh has gallows-trees ;
For why ? he met, one lonesome night,
the fearless Rapparees !
The angry Rapparees !
They never sin no more, my boys, who
cross the Rapparees !
Now, Sassenach and Cromweller, take
heed of what I say,
Keep down your black and angry looks
that scorn us night and day :
For there 's a just and wrathful Judge that
every action sees,
And He '11 make strong, to right our wrong,
the faithful Rapparees !
The fearless Rapparees !
The men that rode at Sarsfield's side, the
roving Rapparees !
SE>eni Florence
BLESS THE DEAR OLD VER
DANT LAND
BLESS the dear old verdant land !
Brother, wert thou born of it ?
As thy shadow life doth stand
Twining round its rosy band,
Did an Irish mother's* hand
Guide thee in the morn of it ?
Did a father's first command
Teach thee love or scorn of it ?
Thou who tread'st its fertile breast,
Dost thou feel a glow for it ?
Thou of all its charms possest,
Living on its first and best,
Art thou but a thankless guest
Or a traitor foe for it ?
J King James II.
I
MACCARTHY DOWLING
101
If thou lovest, where 's the test ?
Wilt thou strike a blow for it ?
Has the past no goading sting
That can make thee rouse for it ?
Does thy land's reviving spring,
Full of buds and blossoming,
Fail to make thy cold heart cling,
Breathing lover's vows for it ?
With the circling ocean's ring
Thou wert made a spouse for it.
Hast thou kept as thou shouldst keep
Thy affections warm for it,
Letting no cold feeling creep
Like an ice-breath o'er the deep,
Freezing to a stony sleep
Hopes the heart would form for it,
Glories that like rainbows peep
Through the darkening storm for it ?
Son of this down-trodden land,
Aid us in the fight for it.
We seek to make it great and grand,
Its shipless bays, its naked strand,
By canvas-swelling breezes fanned :
Oh, what a glorious sight for it,
The past expiring like a brand
In morning's rosy light for it !
Think, this dear old land is thine,
And thou a traitor slave of it :
Think how the Switzer leads his kine,
When pale the evening star doth shine ;
His song has home in every lin<>,
Freedom in every stave of it ;
Think how the German loves hi- Rhine
And worships every wave of it !
Our own dear land is bright as theirs,
But oh ! our hearts are cold for it ;
Awake ! we are not slaves, but heirs.
Our fatherland requires our cares,
Our speech with men, with God our prayers;
Spurn blood-stain'd Judas gold for it :
Let us do all that honor dares
Be earnest, faithful, bold for it I
THE IRISH WOLF-HOUND
FROM "THE FORAY OF CON O'OONXELL n
As fly the shadows o'er the grass,
He flies with step as light and sure,
He hunts the wolf through Tostan past.
And starts the deer by Lisanoure.
The music of the Sabbath bells,
O Con ! has not a sweeter sound
Than when along the valley swells
The cry of John Mac DonneU's bound.
His stature tall, his body long,
His back like night, his breast like snow,
His fore-leg pillar-like and strong,
His hind-leg like a bended bow ;
Rough curling hair, head long and thin,
His ear a leaf so small and round ;
Not Bran, the favorite dog of Fin,
Could rival John Mac Donnell's bound.
25arrt)olometo SDotoling
THE REVEL
(EAST INDIA)
WE meet 'neath the sounding rafter,
And the walls around are bare ;
As they shout back our peals of laughter
It seems that the dead are there.
Then stand to your glasses, steady !
We drink in our comrades' eyes :
One cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that dies I
Not here are the goblets glowing,
Not here is the vintage sweet ;
'T is cold, as our hearts RTP growing,
And dark as the doom we meet.
But stand to your glasses, steady I
And soon shall our pulses rise :
A cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that dies I
There 's many a hand that 's shaking,
And many a cheek that 's sunk ;
But soon, though onr hearts are breaking,
They '11 burn with the wine we *ve drunk
Then stand to your glasses, steady I
'T is here the revival lies :
Quaff a cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that dies 1
102
IRISH MINSTRELSY
Time was when we laugh'd at others ;
We thought we were wiser then ;
Ha ! ha ! let them think of their mothers,
Who hope to see them again.
No ! stand to your glasses, steady !
The thoughtless is here the wise :
One cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that dies !
Not a sigh for the lot that darkles,
Not a tear for the friends that sink ;
We '11 fall, 'midst the wine-cup's sparkles,
As mute as the wine we drink.
Come stand to your glasses, steady !
'T is this that the respite buys :
A cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that dies !
There 's a mist on the glass congealing,
'T is the hurricane's sultry breath ;
And thus does the warmth of feeling
Turn ice in the grasp of Death.
But stand to your glasses, steady 1
For a moment the vapor flies :
Quaff a cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that dies !
Who dreads to the dust returning ?
Who shrinks from the sable shore,
Where the high and haughty yearning
Of the soul can sting no more ?
No, stand to your glasses, steady !
The world is a world of lies :
A cup to the dead already
And hurrah for the next that dies !
Cut off from the land that bore us,
Betray'd by the land we find,
When the brightest have gone before us,
And the dullest are most behind
Stand, stand to your glasses, steady !
'T is all we have left to prize :
One cup to the dead already
Hurrah for the next that dies !
THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD
WHO fears to speak of Ninety-Eight ?
Who blushes at the name ?
When cowards mock the patriot's fate,
Who hangs his head for shame ?
He 's all a knave or half a slave
Who slights his country thus ;
But a true man, like you, man,
Will fill your glass with us.
We drink the memory of the brave,
The faithful and the few :
Some lie far off beyond the wave,
Some sleep in Ireland, too ;
All, all are gone but still lives on
The fame of those who died :
All true men, like you, men,
Remember them with pride.
Some on the shores of distant lands
Their weary hearts have laid,
And by the stranger's heedless hands
Their lonely graves were made ;
But, though their clay be far away
Beyond the Atlantic foam,
In true men, like you, men, /
Their spirit 's still at home.
The dust of some is Irish earth ;
Among their own they rest ;
And the same land that gave them birth
Has caught them to her breast ;
And we will pray that from their clay
Full many a race may start
Of true men, like you, men,
To act as brave a part.
They rose in dark and evil days
To right their native land ;
They kindled here a living blaze
That nothing shall withstand.
Alas, that Might can vanquish Right !
They fell, and pass'd away ;
But true men, like you, men,
Are plenty here to-day.
Then here 's their memory may it bs
For us a guiding light,
To cheer our strife for liberty,
And teach us to unite !
Through good and ill, be Ireland's still,
Though sad as theirs your fate ;
And true men be you, men,
Like those of Ninety-Eight.
IRISH MINSTRELSY
THE CELTIC CROSS
THROUGH storm and fire and gloom, I see
it stand,
Firm, broad, and tall,
The Celtic Cross that marks our Father
land,
Amid them all !
Druids and Danes and Saxons vainly rage
Around its base ;
It standeth shock on shock, and age on age,
Star of our scatter'd race.
O Holy Cross ! dear symbol of the dread
Death of our Lord,
Around thee long have slept our martyr
dead
Sward over sward.
An hundred bishops I myself can count
Among the slain :
Chiefs, captains, rank and file, a shining
mount
Of God's ripe grain.
The monarch's mace, the Puritan's clay
more,
Smote thee not down ;
On headland steep, on mountain summit
hoar,
In mart and town,
In Glendalough, in Ara, in Tyrone,
We find thee still,
Thy open arms still stretching to thine own,
O'er town aud lough and hill.
And would they tear thee out of Irish soil,
The guilty fools !
How time must mock their antiquated toil
And broken tools !
Cranmer and Cromwell from thy grasp re-
tir'd,
Baffled and thrown ;
William and Anne to sap thy site con-
spir'd,
The rest is known.
Holy Saint Patrick, father of our faith,
Belov'd of God 1
Shield thy dear Church from the impend
ing scaith,
Or, if the rod
Must scourge it yet again, inspire and rai
To emprise high
Men like the heroic race of other days,
Who joyed to die.
Fear ! wherefore should the Celtic people
fear
Their Church's fate ?
The day is not the day was never near
Could desolate
The Destin'd Island, all whose seedy clay
Is holy ground :
Its cross shall stand till that predestined
day
When Erin's self is drown'd.
THE IRISH WIFE
I WOULD not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of the Saxon land ;
I would not give my Irish wife
For the Queen of France's hand ;
For she to me is dearer
Than castles strong, or lands, or life :
An outlaw so I 'in near her
To love till death my Irish wife.
what would be this home of mine,
A ruin'd, hermit-haunted place,
But for the light that nightly shines
Upon its walls from Kathleen's face 1
What comfort in a mine of gold,
What pleasure in a royal lifi'.
If the heart within lay dead and cold,
If I could not wed my Irish wife ?
1 knew the law forbade the banns ;
I knew my king abhorr'd her race ;
Who never bent before their clans
Must bow before their ladies' grace.
Take all my forfeited domain,
I cannot wage with kinsmen strife :
Take knightly gear and nouie nairn-,
And I will keep my Irish wife.
My Irish wife has clear blue eyes,
My heaven by day, my stars by night ;
And twin-like truth and fondness lie
Within her swelling bosom white
My Irish wife has golden hair,
Apollo's harp had once such strirgs,
104
IRISH MINSTRELSY
Apollo's self might pause to bear
Her bird-like carol when she sings.
I would not give my Irish wife
For all the dames of the Saxon land ;
I would not give my Irish wife
For the Queen of France's hand ;
For she to me is dearer
Than castles strong, or lands, or life :
In death I would be near her,
And rise beside my Irish wife.
THE EXILE'S DEVOTION
IF I forswear the art divine
That glorifies the dead,
What comfort then can I call mine,
What solace seek instead ?
For from my birth our country's fame
Was life to me, and love ;
And for each loyal Irish name
Some garland still I wove.
I 'd rather be the bird that sings
Above the martyr's grave,
Than fold in fortune's cage my wings
And feel my soul a slave ;
I 'd rather turn one simple verse
True to the Gaelic ear
Than sapphic odes I might rehearse
With senates listening near.
Oh, native land ! dost ever mark,
When the world's din is drown'd
Betwixt the daylight and the dark,
A wandering solemn sound
That on the western wind is borne
Across thy dewy breast ?
It is the voice of those who mourn
For thee, in the far West.
For them and theirs I oft essay
Thy ancient art of song,
And often sadly turn away,
Deeming my rashness wrong ;
For well I ween, a loving will
Is all the art I own :
Ah me ! could love suffice for skill,
What triumphs I had known !
My native land ! my native land I
Live in my memory still !
. Break on my brain, ye surges grand !
Stand up, mist-cover'd hill !
Still on the mirror of the mind
The scenes I love, I see :
Would I could fly on the western wind,
My native land, to thee !
3[ane francegta
(" SPERANZA ")
THE VOICE OF THE POOR
WAS sorrow ever like unto our sorrow ?
O God above !
Will our night never change into a mor
row
Of joy and love ?
A deadly gloom is on us waking sleep
ing
Like the darkness at noon-tide
That fell upon the pallid Mother, weep
ing
By the Crucified.
Before us die our brothers of starvation :
Around are cries cf famine and de
spair :
Where is hope for us, or comfort, or salva
tion ?
Where, oh, where ?
If the angels ever hearken, downward bend-
TK lng '
ihey are weeping, we are sure,
At the litanies of human groans ascend=
ing
From the crush'd hearts of the poor.
When the human rests in love upon the
human,
All grief is light ;
But who bends one kind glance to illumine
Our life-long night ?
The air around is ringing with their laugh
ter ;
God has only made the rich to smile :
LADY WILDE MARY KELLY
But we, in our rags and want aiid woe, we
follow after,
Weeping the while.
And the laughter seems but utter'd to de
ride us :
When, oh ! when,
Will full the frozen barriers that divide
us
From other men ?
Will ignorance for ever thus enslave
us !
Will misery for ever lay us low ?
All are eager with their insults, but to
save us
None, none, we know.
We never knew a childhood's mirth and
gladness,
Nor the proud heart of youth free and
brave ;
Oh ! a death-like dream of wretchedness
and sadness
Is our life's weary journey to the
grave.
f)ay by day we lower sink and lower,
Till the god-like soul within
TIPPERARY
;E you ever in sweet Tipperary, where
the fields are so sunny and green,
And the heath-brown Slieve-blooin and the
Galtees look down with so proud a
mien?
is there you would see more beauty than
is on all Irish ground
God bless you, my sweet Tipperary ! for
where could your match be found ?
They say that your hand is fearful, that
darkness is in your eye ;
But I '11 not let them dare to talk so black
and bitter a lie.
0, no ! macushla storin, bright, bright, and
warm are you,
With hearts as bold as the men of old, to
yourself and your country true.
And when there is gloom upon you, bid
them think who brought it there
Falls crush'd, beneath the fearful demon
power
Of poverty and sin.
So we toil on on, with fever burning
In heart and brain ;
So we toil on on, through bitter scorning,
Want, woe and pain :
We dare not raise our eyes to the blue
heaven
Or the toil must cease ;
We dare not breathe the fresh air God ha*
given.
One hour in peace.
We must toil, though the light of life is
burning,
Oh, how dim !
We must toil on our sick bed, feebly turn
ing
Our eyes to Him
Who alone can hear the pale lip faintly
saying
With scarce mov'd breath,
And the paler hands, uplifted, and the pray
ing,
" Lord, grant us Death ! "
Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not
made for your face so fair ;
You *ve a hand for the grasp of friendship
another to make them quake,
And they 're welcome to whichsoever it
pleases them to take.
Shall our homes, like the huts of Connatight,
be crumbled before our eyes ?
Shall we fly, like a flock of wild geese, from
all that we love and prize ?
No ! by those that were here before us, no
churl shall our tyrant be,
Our land it is theirs by plunder but, by
Brigid, ourselves are free !
No ! we do not forget the greatness did
once to sweet Eire belong ;
No treason or craven spirit was ever our
race among ;
And no frown or word of hatred we giye
but to pay them back ;
In evil we only follow our enemies' dark
some track.
io6
"THE OATEN FLUTE"
O, come for awhile among us and give us
the friendly hand !
And you '11 see that old Tipperary is a lov
ing and gladsome land ;
From Upper to Lower Ormonde, bright
welcomes and smiles will spring :
On the plains of Tipperary the stranger is
like a king.
SDotoning
WERE I BUT HIS OWN WIFE
WERE I but his own wife, to guard and to
guide him,
'T is little of sorrow should fall on nay
dear ;
I 'd chant my low love-verses, stealing be
side him,
So faint and so tender his heart would
but hear ;
I 'd pull the wild blossoms from valley and
highland,
And there at his feet I would lay them
all down ;
I 'd sing him the songs of our poor stricken
island,
Till his heart was on fire with a love like
my own.
There 's a rose by his dwelling, I 'd tend
the lone treasure,
That he might have flowers when the
summer would come ;
There 's a harp in his hall, I would wake
its sweet measure,
For he must have music to brighten his
home.
Were I but his own wife, to guide and to
guard him,
'T is little of sorrow should fall on my
dear ;
For every kind glance my whole life would
award him,
In sickness I 'd soothe and in sadness I 'd
cheer.
My heart is a fount welling upward for
ever !
When I think of my true-love, by night
or by day,
That heart' keeps its faith like a fast-flow
ing river
Which gushes forever and sings on its
way.
I have thoughts full of peace for his soul to
repose in,
Were I but his own wife, to win and to
woo ;
O sweet, if the night of misfortune were
closing,
To rise like the morning star, darling,
for you 1
"THE OATEN FLUTE"
IteiHiam
(DORSET)
WOONE SMILE MWORE
! MEAKY, when the zun went down,
Woone night in spring, w' viry rim,
Behind the nap wi' woody crown,
An' left your smilen feace so dim }
Your little sister there, inside,
Wi' bellows on her little knee,
Did blow the vire, a-glearen wide
Drough window-peanes, that I could
zee,
As you did stan' wi' me, avore
The house, a-pearten, woone smile mwore,
WILLIAM BARNES
107
The chatt'ren birds, a-riscn high,
An' zinkcn low, did swiftly vlee
Vroin shrinkcn moss, a-groweu dry,
Upon the leanen apple tree.
An' there the dog, a-whippen wide
His heiiiry tai'l, an' comen near,
Did fondly lay agean your zide
His coal-black nose an' russet ear :
To win what I 'd a-won avore,
Vroiu your gay feace, his woone smile
mwore.
An' while your mother bustled sprack,
A-getten supper out in hall,
An' cast her sheade, a-whiv'ren black
Avore the vire, upon the wall ;
Your brother come, wi' easy peace,
In drough the slammen geate, along
The path, wi' healthy-bloomen feace,
A-whis'len shrill his last new zong :
An' when he come avore the door,
He met vrom you his woone smile mwore.
Now you that wer the daughter there,
Be mother on a husband's vloor,
An' mid ye meet wi' less o' ceare
Than what your hearty mother bore ;
An' if abroad I have to rue
The bitter tongue, or wrongvul deed,
[id I come hwome to sheare wi' you
What 's needvul free o' pinchen need :
An' vind that you ha' still in store
My evenen
mwore.
meal, an' woone smile
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS
THE primrwose in the sheade do blow,
The cowslip in the zun,
The thyme upon the down do grow,
The clote where streams do run ;
An' where do pretty maidens grow
An' blow, but where the tow'r
Do rise among the bricken tuns,
In Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you could zee their comely gait,
An' pretty feaces' smiles,
A-tnppen on so light o' walght,
An' steppen off the stiles ;
A-gwain to church, as bells do swing
An* ring 'ithin the tow'r,
You 'd own the pretty maidens' pleace
Is Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you vrom Wimborne took your road,
To Stower or Paladore,
An' all the farmers' houaen show'd
Their daughters at the door ;
You 'd cry to bachelors at hwome
"Here, come : 'ithin an hour
You '11 vind ten maidens to your mind,
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
An* if you look'd 'ithin their door,
To zee em in their pleace,
A-doen housework up avore
Their smilen mother s feace ;
You 'd cry " Why, if a man would wire
An' thrive, 'ithout a dow'r,
Then let en look en out a wife
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
As I upon my road did pass
A school-house back in May,
There out upon the beaten grass
Wer maidens at their play ;
An' as the pretty souls did tweil
An' smile, I cried, The flow'r
O' beauty, then, is still in bud
In Blackmwore by the Stour."
THE HEARE
(1) THERE be the greyhounds ! Io*k ! an 1
there 's the heare !
(2) What houn's, the squier's, Thomas?
where, then, where ?
(1) Why, out in Ash Hill, near the barn,
behind
Thik tree. (3) The pollard? (1) Pol-
lard! no! b 'ye blind?
(2) There, I do zee em over-right thik
cow.
(3) The red woone ? (1) No, a mile be-
yand her now.
(3) Oh ! there 's the heare, a-mettken for
the drong.
(2) My goodness ! How the dogs do
zweep along,
A-poken out their pweinted noses' tips.
(3) He can't allow hizzelf much time vor
slips !
(1) They'll hab en, after all, 111 bet a
crown.
(2) Done vor a crown. They woon't !
He 's gwain to gronn'.
(3) He is ! (1) He idden I (3) Ah I 'tU
well his tooes
Ha' got noo corns, inside o' hobnail MM*
io8
"THE OATEN FLUTE"
(1) He 's geame a-runnen too. Why, he
do mwore
Than earn his life. (3) His life wer his
avore.
(1) There, now the dogs wull turn en.
(2) No ! He 's right.
(1) He idden! (2) Ees he is! (3)
He 's out o' zight.
(1) Aye, aye. His mettle wull be well a-
tried
Agwai'n down Verny Hill, o' t' other zide.
They '11 have en there. (3) O no ! a vew
good hops
Wull teake en on to Knapton Lower Copse.
(2) An' that 's a meesh that he 've a-took
avore.
(3) Ees, that's his hwome. (1) He'll
never reach his door.
(2) He wull. (1) Hewoon't. (3) Now,
hark, d 'ye hear em now ?
(2) O ! here 's a bwoy a-come athirt the
brow
O' Knapton Hill. We '11 ax en. (1) Here,
my bwoy !
Canst tell us where 's the heare? (4)
He 's got awoy.
(2) Ees, got awoy, in coo'se, I never zeed
A heare a-scoten on wi' half his speed.
(1) Why, there, the dogs be wold, an' half
a-done.
They can 't catch anything wi' lags to run.
(2) Vrom vu'st to last they had but little
chance
0* catchen o' 'n. (3) They had a perty
dance.
(1) No, catch en, no ! I little thought
they would ;
He know'd his road too well to Knapton
Wood.
(3) No ! no ! I wish the squier would let
me feare
On rabbits till his hounds do catch thik
heare.
THE CASTLE RUINS
A HAPPY day at Whitsuntide,
As soon 's the zun begun to vail,
We all stroll'd up the steep hill-zide
To Meldon, gret an' small ;
Out where the Castle wall stood high
A-mwoldren to the zunny sky.
An' there wi' Jenny took a stroll
Her youngest sister, Poll, so gay,
Bezide John Hind, ah ! merry soul,
An' mid her wedlock fay ;
An' at our zides did play an' run
My little mai'd an' smaller son.
Above the beaten mwold upsprung
The driven doust, a-spreaden light,
An' on the new-leav'd thorn, a-hung,
Wer wool a-quiv'ren white ;
An' corn, a-sheenen bright, did bow,
On slopen Meldon's zunny brow.
There, down the roofless wall did glow
The zun upon the grassy vloor,
An' weakly-wandren winds did blow,
Unhinder'd by a door ;
An' smokeless now avore the zun
Did stan' the ivy-girded tun.
My bwoy did watch the daws' bright
wings
A-flappen vrom their ivy bow'rs ;
My wife did watch my maid's light
springs,
Out here an' there vor flow'rs ;
And John did zee noo tow'rs, the pleace
Vor him had only Polly's feace.
An' there, of all that pried about
The walls, I overlook'd em best,
An' what o' that ? Why, I meade out
Noo mwore than all the rest :
That there wer woonce the nest of zome
That wer a-gone avore we come.
When woonce above the tun the smoke
Did wreathy blue among the trees.
An' down below, the liven vo'k
Did tweil as brisk as bees ;
Or zit wi r weary knees, the while
The sky wer lightless to their tweil.
"THE OATEN FLUTE
109
(LANCASHIRE)
:E DULE'S I' THIS BONNET
O' MINE
THK dale 's i' this bonnet o' mine ;
My ribhins '11 never be reet ;
Here, Mally, aw 'm like to be fine,
For Jamie '11 be comin' to-neet ;
He met me i' th' lone t' other day,
Aw 're gooin' for wayter to th' well,
An' he begg'd that aw 'd wed him i'
May;
Bi th' mass, iv he '11 let me, aw will !
he took my two houds into his,
Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ;
in' aw dnrstn't look up in his face,
Becose on him seein' my e'en ;
My cheek went as red as a rose ;
There 's never a mortal can tell
Hcnw happy aw felt ; for, thea knows,
One could n't ha' ax'd him theirseF.
But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung,
To let it eawt would n't be reet,
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung,
So aw towd him aw 'd tell him to-neet ;
But Mally, thae knows very weel,
Though it is n' t a thing one should own,
'Iv aw 'd th' pikein' o'th' world to mysel',
Aw 'd oather ha* Jamie or noan.
Neaw, Mally, aw 've towd tho my mind ;
What would to do iv 't wur thee ?
" Aw 'd tak him just while he 're incliu'd,
An' a farrantly bargain he 'd be ;
For Jamie 's as gradely a lad
. As ever stepp'd eawt into th' sun ;
^Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed,
An' may th' best o' th' job when it 's
done ! "
Eh, dear, but it 's time to be gwon,
Aw should n't like Jamie to wait ;
Aw connut for shame be too soon,
An' aw would n't for th' world be too
late ;
Aw 'tn o' ov a tremble to th' heel,
Dost think 'at my bonnet '11 do ?
u Be off, lass, thae looks very weel ;
He wants noan o' th' bonnet, thae foo 1 "
TH' SWEETHEART GATE
OH, there's mony a gate eawt ov
teawn-end,
But nobbut one for me ;
It winds by a rindlin' wayter side,
An' o'er a posied lea,
It wanders into a shady dell ;
An' when aw 've done for th' day,
Aw never can sattle this heart o' mine,
Beawt walkiu' deawn tliat way.
It 's noather garden, nor posied lea,
Nor wayter rindliu' clear ;
But deawn i' th vale there 's a rosy nook,
An' my true love lives theer.
It 's olez summer where th' heart 's content,
Tho' wintry winds may blow ;
An' there 's never a gate 'at 's so kind to th*
fuut,
As th' gate one likes to go.
When aw set off o' sweetheartin,' aw Ve
A theawsan* things to say ;
But h' very first glent o' yon chimbley-top
It drives 'em o' away ;
An' when aw meet wi' my bonny lass,
It sets my heart a-jee ;
Oh, there 's suminut i' th' leet o' yon two
blue e'en
That plays the dule wi' me !
When th' layrock 's finished his wark aboon,
An' laid his music by,
He flutters deawn to his mate, an' stops
Till dayleet stirs i' th' sky.
Though Matty sends me away at dark,
Aw know that hoo 's reet full well ;
An' it 's heaw aw love a true-hearted lass,
No mortal tung can tell !
Aw wish that Candlemas day were past,
When wakin' time comes on ;
An* aw wish that Kesmass time were here,
An' Matty an' me were one.
Aw wish this wanderin' wark were o'er
This maunderin' to an' fro ;
That aw could go whoam to my own true
love,
An' stop at neet an' o'.
no
THE OATEN FLUTE"
OWD FINDER
OWD Finder were a rackless foo,
An' spent his days i' spreein' ;
At th' end ov every drinkin'-do,
He 're sure to crack o' deein' ;
" Go, sell my rags, an' sell my shoon ;
Aw 's never live to trail 'em ;
My ballis-pipes are eawt o' tune,
An' th' wynt begins to fail 'em !
" Eawr Matty 's very fresh an' yung ;
'T would ony mon bewilder ;
Hoo '11 wed again afore it 's lung,
For th' lass is fond o' childer ;
My bit o' brass '11 fly, yo 'n see,
When th' coffin-lid has screen'd me ;
It gwos again my pluck to dee,
An' lev her wick beheend me.
" Come, Matty, come, an' cool my yed,
Aw 'm finish'd, to my thinkin' ; "
Hoo happ'd him nicely up, an' said,
" Thae 's brought it on wi' drinkin' ! '
Nay, nay,
done :
said he, "my fuddle 's
We 're partin' t' one fro' t' other ;
So, promise me that when a 'm gwon,
Thea '11 never wed another ! "
"Th' owd tale," said hoo, an' laft
stoo,
" It 's rayley past believin' ;
Thee think o' th' world thea 'rt goin' to,
An' leave this world to th' livin' ;
What use to me can deead folk be ?
Thae 's kilt thisel' wi spreein' ;
An' iv that 's o' thae wants wi' me,
Get forrud wi' thi deein' ! "
He scrat his yed, he rubb'd his e'e,
An' then he donn'd his breeches ;
" Eawr Matty gets as fause," said he,
" As one o' Pendle witches ;
Iv ever aw 'm to muster wit,
It mun be now or never ;
Aw think aw '11 try to live a bit ;
It would n't do to lev her ! "
her
(LANCASHIRE)
WELCOME, BONNY BRID !
THA 'rt welcome, little bonny brid,
But should n't ha' come just when tha
did;
Toimes are bad.
We 're short o' pobbies for eawr Joe,
But that, of course, tha did n't know,
Did ta, lad ?
Aw've often yeard mi feyther tell,
? At when aw coom i' th' world misel
Trade wur slack ;
An' neaw it 's hard wark pooin' throo
But aw munno fear thee ; iv aw do
Tha '11 go back.
Cheer up ! these toimes 'ull awter soon ;
Aw 'in beawn to beigh another spoon
One for thee ;
An' as tha 's sich a pratty face,
Aw '11 let thee have eawr Charley's place
On mi knee.
God bless thee, love, aw 'm fain tha 'rt come,
Just try an' mak thisel awhoam :
What ar 't co'd ?
Tha 'rt loike thi mother to a tee,
But tha 's thi feyther's nose, aw see,
Well, aw'mblow'd!
Come, come, tha need n't look so shy,
Aw am no' blackin' thee, not I ;
Settle deawn,
An' tak this haup'ney for thisel',
There 's lots o' sugar-sticks to sell
Deawu i' th' teawn.
Aw know when furst aw coom to th' leet
Aw 're fond o' owt 'at tasted sweet ;
Tha '11 be th' same.
But come, tha 's never towd thi dad
What he 's to co thi yet, mi lad
What 's thi name ?
Hush ! hush ! tha munno cry this way,
But get this sope o' cinder tay
While it 's warm j
LAYCOCK ELLIOTT
in
Mi mother us'd to give it me,
When aw wur sich a lad as thee,
In her arm.
Hush a babby, hush a bee
Oh, what a temper ! dear a-me,
Heaw tha skroikes !
Here 's a bit o' sugar, sithee ;
Howd thi noise, an' then aw '11 gie thee
Owt tha loikes.
We 'n nobbut getten coarsish fare,
But eawt o' this tha 'st ha' thi share,
Never fear.
Aw hope tha '11 never want a meel,
But allus fill thi bally weel
While tha 'rt here.
Thi feyther 's noan bin wed so long,
An' yet tha sees he 's middlin' throng
Wi' yo' o :
Besides thi little brother, Ted,
We '11 one up-steers, asleep i' bed
Wi' eawr Joe.
But though we 'n childer two or three,
We '11 mak' a bit o' reawm for thee
Bless thee, lad !
Tha 'rt th' prattiest brid we ban i*
nest ;
Come, hutch up closer to mi breast
Aw "in thi dad.
ttf
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
(HUMANITY FREE THOUGHT POLITICAL, SOCIAL, AND ARTISTIC, REFORM)
ELEGY ON WILLIAM COBBETT
O BEAR him where the rain can fall,
And where the winds can blow ;
And let the sun weep o'er his pall
As to the grave ye go !
id in some little lone churchyard,
Beside the growing corn,
Lay gentle Nature's stern prose bard,
Her mightiest peasant-born.
Tea ! let the wild-flower wed his grave,
That bees may murmur near,
n o'er his last home bend the brave,
And say "A man lies here ! "
Tor Britons honor Cobbett's name,
Though rashly oft he spoke ;
ind none can scorn, and few will blame,
The low-laid heart of oak.
;e, o'er his prostrate branches, see !
E'en factious hate consents
To reverence, in the fallen tree,
His British lineaments.
Elliott
Though gnarl'd the storm-toss'd boughs
that brav'd
The thunder's gather'd scowl,
Not always through his darkness rav'd
The storm-winds of the soul.
O, no ! in hours of golden calm
Morn met his forehead bold ;
And breezy evening sang her psalm
Beneath his dew-dropp'd gold.
The wren its crest of fibred fire
With his rich bronze compar'd,
While many a youngling's songful sire
His acorn'd twiglets shar'd.
The lark, above, sweet tribute paid,
Where clouds with light were riven ;
And true love sought his bluebell'd shade,
" To bless the hour of heaven."
E'en when his stormy voice was loud,
And guilt quak'd at the sound,
Beneath the frown that shook the proud
The poor a shelter found.
112
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Dead oak ! thou livest. Thy smitten hands,
The thunder of thy brow,
Speak with strange tongues in many lands,
And tyrants hear thee, now !
Beneath the shadow of thy name,
Inspir'd by thy renown,
Shall future patriots rise to fame,
And many a sun go down.
A POET'S EPITAPH
STOP, mortal ! Here thy brother lies
The poet of the poor.
His books were rivers, woods, and skies,
The meadow and the moor ;
His teachers were the torn heart's wail,
The tyrant and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,
The palace and the grave.
Sin met thy brother everywhere !
And is thy brother blam'd ?
From passion, danger, doubt, and care,
He no exemption claim'd.
The meanest thing, earth's feeblest worm,
He fear'd to scorn or hate ;
But, honoring in a peasant's form
The equal of the great,
He bless'd the steward, whose wealth makes
The poor man's little, more ;
Yet loath'd the haughty wretch that takes
From plunder 'd labor's store.
A hand to do, a head to plan,
A heart to feel and dare
Tell man's worst foes, here lies the man
Who drew them as they are.
THE BUILDERS
SPRING, summer, autumn, winter,
Come duly, as of old ;
Winds blow, suns set, and morning sait
" Ye hills, put on your gold."
The song of Homer liveth,
Dead Solon is not dead ;
Thy splendid name, Pythagoras,
O'er realms of suns is spread.
But Babylon and Memphis
Are letters traced in dust :
Read them, earth's tyrants ! ponder well
The might in which ye trust !
They rose, while all the depths of guilt
Their vain creators sounded ;
They fell, because on fraud and force
Their corner-stones were founded.
Truth, mercy, knowledge, justice,
Are powers that ever stand ;
They build their temples in the soul,
And work with God's right hand.
THE BARONS BOLD
THE Barons bold on Runnymede
By union won their charter ;
True men were they, prepar'd to bleed,
But not their rights to barter :
And they swore that England's laws
Were above a tyrant's word ;
And they prov'd that freedom's cause
Was above a tyrant's sword :
Then honor we
The memory
Of those Barons brave united ;
And like their band,
Join hand to hand :
Our wrongs shall soon be righted.
The Commons brave, in Charles's time,
By union made the Crown fall,
And show'd the world how royal crime
Should lead to royal downfall :
And they swore that rights and laws
Were above a monarch's word ;
And they raised the nation's cause
Above the monarch's sword :
Then honor we
The memory
Of those Commons brave, united ;
And like their band,
Join hand to hand :
Our wrongs shall soon be righted.
The People firm, from Court and Peers,
By union won Reform, sirs,
FOX HOOD
And, union safe, the nation steers
Through sunshine and through storm,
sirs :
And we swear that equal laws
Shall prevail o'er lordlings' words,
Ami can prove that freedom's cause
Is too strong for hireling swords :
Then honor we
The victory
Of the people brave, united ;
Let all our bands
Join hearts and hands :
Our wrongs shall all be righted.
LIFE IS LOVE
ITHE fair varieties of earth,
The heavens serene and blue above,
The rippling smile of mighty seas
What is the charm of all, but love ?
By love they minister to thought,
Love makes them breathe the poet's
song ;
When their Creator best is prais'd,
'T is love inspires the adoring throng.
Knowledge, and power, and will supreme,
Are but celestial tyranny,
Till they are consecrate by love,
The essence of divinity.
For love is strength, and faith, and hope ;
It crowns with bliss our mortal state ;
And, glancing far beyond the grave,
Foresees a life of endless date.
That life is love ; and all of life
Time or eternity can prove ;
Both men and angels, worms and gods,
Exist in universal love.
Cfjomag l)oob
MTHE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM
TWAS in the prime of summer time,
An evening calm and cool,
And four-and-twenty happy boys
f Came bounding out of school :
There wore some that ran and some that
leap'd,
I Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds,
I And souls untouch'd by sin ;
To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in :
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
[ Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they cours'd about,
f And shouted as they ran,
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
[ As only boyhood can ;
But the Usher sat remote from all,
! A melancholy man !
hat was off, his vest apart,
To catch heaven's blessed breeze ;
>r a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at rasi :
he lean'd his head on his hands, and read
The book between his knees.
Leaf after leaf, he turn'd it o'er,
Nor ever glanced aside,
For the peace of his soul he read that
book
In the golden eventide :
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strain'd the dusky coven eJQM
Ami ftx'd the brazen hasp :
" Oh, God ! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp ! "
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took,
Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook,
And, lo ! he saw a little boy
That por'd upon a book.
My gentle lad, what is 't you read
Romance or fairy fable ?
Or is it some historic page,
Of kings and crowns unstable ?
The young boy gave an upward glance,
"It is 'The Death of Abel."'
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again ;
And down he sat beside the lad,
And talk'd with him of Cain ;
And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves ;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves ;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves ;
And how the sprites of injur'd men
Shriek upward from the sod ;
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod ;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God !
He told how murderers walk the earth
Beneath the curse of Cain,
With crimson clouds before their eyes,
And flames about their brain :
For blood has left upon their souls
Its everlasting stain.
And well," quoth he, " I know, for truth,
Their pangs must be extreme,
Woe, woe, unutterable woe,
Who spill life's sacred stream !
For why ? Methought, last night, I wrought
A murder, in a dream !
" One that had never done me wrong,
A feeble man and old :
I led him to a lonely field ;
The moon shone clear and cold :
Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold !
** Two sudden blows with a ragged stick,
And one with a heavy stone,
One hurried gash with a hasty knife,
And then the deed was done ;
There was nothing lying at my foot
But lifeless flesh and bone !
" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill ;
And yet I fear'd him all the more,
For lying there so still :
There was a manhood in his look,
That murder could not kill
" And, lo ! the universal air
Seem'd lit with ghastly flame ;
Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame :
I took the dead man by his hand,
And call'd upon his name !
" Oh, God ! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain !
But when I touch'd the lifeless clay,
The blood gush'd out amain !
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain !
" My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice ;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil's price ;
A dozen times I groan'd : the dead
Had never groan'd but twice.
" And now, from forth the frowning sky,
From the Heaven's topmost height,
I heard a voice the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite :
' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead
And hide it from my sight ! '
" I took the dreary body up,
And cast it in a stream,
A sluggish water, black as ink,
The depth was so extreme :
My gentle Boy, remember this
Is nothing but a dream !
" Down went the corse with hollow plunj
And vanish'd in the pool ;
Anon I cleans'd my bloody hands,
And wash'd my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young,
That evening in the school.
" Oh, Heaven ! to think of their white soi
And mine so black and grim !
I could not share in childish prayer
Nor join in Evening Hymn :
Like a Devil of the Pit I seem'd,
'Mid holy Cherubim !
" And peace went with them, one and all,
And each calm pillow spread ;
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain
That lighted me to bed,
And drew my midnight curtains round,
With fingers bloody red !
THOMAS HOOD
-'5
* All night I lay in agony,
i In anguish dark and deep,
My fever'd eyes I dar'd not close,
But star'd aghast at Sleep :
Tor Sin had render'd unto her
The keys of hell to keep.
l"All night I lay in agony,
From weary chime to chime,
[ With one besetting horrid hint,
That rack'd me all the time ;
[A mighty yearning like the first
Fierce impulse unto crime ;
"One stern tyrannic thought, that made
All other thoughts its slave :
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave,
| Still urging me to go and see
The Dead Man in his grave !
f* Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky,
Lnd sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye :
I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.
| w Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dew-drop from its wing ;
it I never mark'd its morning flight,
I never heard it sing,
Tor I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
1 took him up and ran ;
here was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began :
a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murder'd man.
And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was other where ;
soon as the mid-day task was done,
In secret I was there ;
a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare !
1 Then down I cast me on my face,
And first began to weep,
iV>r I knew my secret then was one
That earth refus'd to keep :
land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.
" So wills the fierce avenging Sprite,
Till blood for blood atones 1
Aye, though he 's buried in a cave,
And trodden down with stones,
And years have rotted off his flesh,
The world shall see his bones.
" Oh, God ! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake I
Again again, with dizzy brain,
The human life I take ;
And my red right hand grows raging
hot,
Like Cranmer's at the stake.
" And still no peace for the restless clay
Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul,
It stands before me now 1 "
The fearful Boy look'd up, and saw
Huge drops upon bis brow.
That very night, while gentle sleep
The urchin eyelids kiss'd,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn,
Through the cold and heavy mist ;
And Eugene Aram walk'd between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
FLOWERS
I WILL not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turn'd by the sun ;
The tulip is a courtly quean,
Whom, therefore I will shun ;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun ;
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one.
The pea is but a wanton witch,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand ;
The wolfsbane I should dread ;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye,
That always mourns the dead ;
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me,
And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with t
blush,
She is of such low degree j
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves,
And the broom 's betroth'd to the bee ;
But I will plight with the dainty rose,
For fairest of all is she.
FAIR INES
O SAW ye not fair Ines ?
She 's gone into the West,
To dazzle when the sun is down,
And rob the world of rest :
She took our daylight with her,
The smiles that we love best,
With morning blushes on her cheek,
And pearls upon her breast.
turn again, fair Tnes,
Before the fall of night,
For fear the Moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivall'd bright ;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light,
And breathes the love against thy cheek
1 dare not even write.
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier
Who rode so gayly by thy side,
And whisper'd thee so near !
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here,
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear ?
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands of noble gentlemen,
And banners wav'd before ;
And gentle youth and maidens gay,
And snowy plumes they wore ;
It would have been a beauteous dream, -
If it had been no more !
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With Music waiting on her steps,
And shoutings of the throng ;
But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you 've lov'd so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines J
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck,
Nor danced so light before :
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore I
The smile that bless'd one lover's heart
Has broken many more !
THE DEATH-BED
WE watch'd her breathing thro' the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.
So silently we seem'd to speak,
So slowly mov'd about,
As we had lent her half our powers
To eke her living out.
Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.
For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids clos'd she had
Another morn than ours.
BALLAD
IT was not in the winter
Our loving lot was cast ;
It was the time of roses,
We pluck'd them as we pass'd.
That churlish season never frown'd
On early lovers yet :
Oh, no the world was newly crown'd
With flowers when first we met !
'T was twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast ;
It was the time of roses,
We pluck'd them as we pass'd.
What else could peer thy glowing cheek,
That tears began to stud ?
And when I ask'd the like of Love,
You snatch'd a damask bud ;
And op'd it to the dainty core,
Still glowing to the last.
It was the time of roses,
We pluck'd them as we pass'd.
THOMAS HOOD
LEAR
POOR old king with sorrow for my crowii,
ron'd upon straw, and mantled with the
wind
?or pity, my own tears have made me blind
~ mt I might never see my children's frown ;
maybe madness like a frieiid has
thrown
A folded fillet over my dark mind,
So that unkindly speech may sound for
kind,
Albeit I know not. I am childish grown,
I And have not gold to purchase wit withal,
I I that have once maintain'd most royal
state,
I A very bankrupt now that may not call
K My child, my child all-beggar'd save in
tears,
Wherewith I daily weep an old man's
fate,
I Foolish and blind and overcome with
years !
BALLAD
SPRING it is cheery,
Winter is dreary,
Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly ;
When he 's forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,
What can an old man do but die ?
Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him,
[ Maud and Marian pass him by ;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey,
What can an old man do but die ?
June it was jolly,
O for its folly 1
dancing leg and a laughing eye ;
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly,
can an old man do but die ?
Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why ;
Gold 's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches !)
What can an old man do but die ?
FROM "MISS KILMANSEGG AND
HER PRJXIOUS LI
HER DEATH
T is a stern and startling thing to think
How often mortality stands on the brink
Of its rave without any misgiving :
And yet in this slippery world of strife,
In the stir of human bustle so rife,
There are daily sounds to tell us thai Life
Is dying, and Death is living !
Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy,
Bright as they are with hope and joy,
How their souls would sadden instanter.
To remember that one of those wedding
bells,
Which ring so merrily through the dells,
Is the same that knells
Our last farewells,
Only broken into a canter I
But breath and blood set doom at nought :
How little the wretched Countess thought,
When at night she unloos'd her sandal.
That the Fates had woven her burial cloth,
And that Death, in the shape of a Death's
Head Moth,
Was fluttering round her caudle !
As she look'd at her clock of or-molu,
For the hours she had gone so wearily
through
At the end of a day of trial,
How little she saw in her pride of prime
The dart of Death in the Hand of Time
That hand which mov'd on the dial !
As she went with her taper up the stair,
How little her swollen eve was aware
That the Shadow which followed waa
double !
Or when she clos'd her chamber door,
It was shutting out, and for evermore,
The world and its worldly trouble.
Little she dreamt, aa she laid aside
Her jewels, after one glance of pride,
They were solemn bequests to Vanity ;
Or when her robes she began to doff
That she stood so near to the putting off
Of the flesh that clothes humanity.
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
And when she quench'd the taper's light,
How little she thought, as the smoke took
flight,
That her day was done and merged in a
night
Of dreams and durations uncertain,
Or, along with her own,
That a Hand of Bone
Was closing mortality's curtain !
But life is sweet, and mortality blind,
And youth is hopeful, and Fate is kind
In concealing the day of sorrow ;
And enough is the present tense of toil,
For this world is to all a stiffish soil,
And the mind flies Lack with a glad recoil
From the debts not due till to-morrow.
Wherefore else does the spirit fly
And bids its daily cares good-bye,
Along with its daily clothing ?
Just as the felon condemn'd to die,
With a very natural loathing,
Leaving the Sheriff to dream of ropes,
From his gloomy cell in a vision elopes
To caper on sunny greens and slopes,
Instead of the dance upon nothing.
Thus, even thus, the Countess slept,
While Death still nearer and nearer crept,
Like the Thane who smote the sleeping ;
But her mind was busy with early joys,
Her golden treasures and golden toys,
That flash'd a bright
And golden light
Under lids still red with weeping.
The golden doll that she used to hug !
Her coral of gold, and the golden mug !
Her godfather's golden presents !
The golden service she had at her meals,
The golden watch, and chain, and seals,
Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels,
And her golden fishes and pheasants!
The golden guineas in silken purse,
And the Golden Legends she heard from
her nurse,
Of the Mayor in his gilded carriage,
And London streets that were pav'd with
gold,
And the Golden Eggs that were laid of old,
With each golden thing
To the golden ring
At her own auriferous Marriage !
And still the golden light of the sun
Through her golden dream appear'd to run,
Though the night that roar'd without was
one
To terrify seamen or gypsies,
While the moon, as if in malicious mirth,
Kept peeping down at the ruffled earth,
As though she enjoy'd the tempest's birth,
In revenge of her old eclipses.
But vainly, vainly, the thunder fell,
For the soul of the Sleeper was under a spell
That time had lately embitter'd :
The Count, as once at her foot he knelt
That foot which now he wanted to melt !
But hush ! 't was a stir at her pillow
she felt,
And some object before her glitter'd.
'T was the Golden Leg ! she knew its
gleam !
And up she started, and tried to scream,
But, ev'n in the moment she started,
Down came the limb with a frightful smash.
And, lost in the universal flash
That her eyeballs made at so mortal a crash,
The Spark, call'd Vital, departed !
Gold, still gold ! hard, yellow, and cold,
For gold she had liv'd, and she died fo*
gold,
By a golden weapon not oaken ;
In the morning they found her all alone
Stiff, and bloody, and cold as stone
But her Leg, the Golden Leg, was gone,
And the " Golden Bowl was broken ! "
Gold still gold ! it haunted her yet :
At the Golden Lion the Inquest met
Its foreman a carver and gilder,
And the Jury debated from twelve till three
What the Verdict ought to be,
And they brought it in as Felo-de-Se,
" Because her own Leg had kill'd her ! "
HER MORAL
Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Gold !
Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammer'd, and roll'd ;
Heavy to get, and light to hold ;
Hoarded, barter'd, bought, and sold,
Stolen, borrow'd, squander'd, doled :
Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould ;
THOMAS HOOD
119
Price of many a crime untold ;
Gold ! Gold ! Gold ! Gold !
Good or bad a thousand-fold !
How widely its agencies vary :
To save to ruin to curse to bless
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamp' d with the image of Good Queen
Bess,
And now of a bloody Mary.
RUTH
SHE stood breast high amid the corn,
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush,
Deeply ripen'd ; such a blush
In the midst of brown was born,
Like red poppies grown with corn.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,
Which were blackest none could tell,
But long lashes veil'd a light
That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim,
Made her tressy forehead dim ;
Thus she stood amid the stocks,
Praising God with sweetest looks :
Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean
Where I reap thou shouldst but glean,
Lay thy sheaf adown and come,
Share my harvest and my home.
THE WATER LADY
ALAS, the moon should ever beam
To show what man should never see !
I saw a maiden on a stream,
And fair was she t
I stayed awhile, to see her throw
Her tresses back, that all beset
The fair horizon of her brow
With clouds of jet.
I stayed a little while to view
Her cheek, that wore in place of red
The bloom of water, tender blue,
Daintily spread.
I stayed to watch, a little space,
Her parted lips if she would sing ;
The waters clos'd above her face
With many a ring.
And still I stayed a little more :
Alas, she never comes again !
I throw my flowers from the shore,
And watch in vain.
I know my life will fade away,
I know that I must vainly pine,
For I am made of mortal clay,
But she 's divine I
ODE
AUTUMN
I SAW old Autumn in the misty moir
Stand shadowless, like silence, listening
To silence, for no lonely bird would sing
Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,
Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ;
Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright
With tangled gossamer that fell by night,
Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
ii
Where are the songs of Summer ? With
the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south,
Till shade and silence waken up as one,
And Morning sings with a warm odorous
mouth.
Where are the merry birds ? Away, away,
On panting wiugs through the inclement
skies,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noon-day,
And tear with horny beak their lustroui
eyes.
Ill
Where are the blooms of Summer? IB
the west,
Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,
When the mild Eve by sudden Night is
prest
Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her
flow'rs
To a most gloomy breast.
120
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Where is the pride of Summer, the green
prime,
The many, many leaves all twinkling ?
Three
On the moss'd elm ; three on the naked
lime
Trembling, and one upon the old oak
tree !
Where is the Dryad's immortality ?
Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,
Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternity.
IV
The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd
hoard,
The ants have brimm'd their garners with
ripe grain,
And honey bees have stor'd
The sweets of Summer in their luscious
cells ;
The swallows all have wing'd across the
main ;
But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,
And sighs her tearful spells
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone,
She sits and reckons up the dead and
gone
With the last leaves for a love-rosary,
Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily,
Like a dim picture of the drowned past
In the hush'd mind's mysterious far away,
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the
last
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.
O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded
Under the languid downfall of her hair :
She wears a coronal of flowers faded
Upon her forehead, and a face of care ;
There is enough of wither'd everywhere
To make her bower, and enough of
gloom ;
There is enough of sadness to invite,
If only for the rose that died, whose
doom
Is Beauty's, she that with the living bloom
Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the
light ; -
There is enough of sorrowing, and quite
Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth;i
bear,
Enough of chilly droppings for her
bowl ;
Enough of fear and shadowy despair,
To frame her cloudy prison for the
soul !
THE SONG OF THE SHIRT
WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the Song of the Shirt ! "
" Work ! work ! work !
While the cock is crowing aloof !
And work work work,
Till the stars shine through the roof !
It 's Oh ! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work !
" Work work work
Till the brain begins to swim ;
Work work work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim.
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream '
" Oh, Men, with Sisters dear !
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives !
It is not linen you 're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives !
Stitch stitch stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
" But why do I talk of Death ?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep ;
Oh, God ! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap !
THOMAS HOOD
121
*' Work work work 1
My labor never flags ;
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread and rags.
That shatter'd roof and this naked floor
A table a broken chair
And a wall so blank, my shadow I t hank
For sometimes falling there.
Work work work !
From weary chime to chime,
Work work work
As prisoners work for crime !
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain be-
numb'd,
As well as the weary hand.
" Work work work,
In the dull December light,
And work work work,
When the weather is warm and bright,
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
Oh ! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal,
" Oh, but for one short hour !
A respite however brief !
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief !
A little weeping would ease iny heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread ! "
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread
Stitch ! stitch ! stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Lnd still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
" r ould that its tone could reach the Rich !
She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! "
THE LAY OF THE LABORER
A SPADE ! a rake t a hoe (
A pickaxe, or a bill !
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will,
And here 's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labor's rugged school.
To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the s wart h on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea ;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to. thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.
To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam ;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home ;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays
A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard's blaze !
To Him who sends a drought
To parch the fields forlorn,
The rain to flood the meadows with mud,
The blight to blast the corn,
To Him I leave to guide
The bolt in its crooked path,
To strike the miser's rick, and show
The skies blood-red with wrath.
A spade ! a rake ! a hoe !
A pickaxe, or a bill !
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will ;
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market-team to drive,
Or mend the fence by the cover side,
And leave the game alive.
Ay, only give me work,
And then you need not fear
That I shall snare his worship's hare,
Or kill his grace's deer ;
Break into his lordship's house,
To steal the plate so rich ;
122
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
To welter in a ditch.
Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labor calls,
No job I '11 shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls ;
Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.
My only claim is this,
With labor stiff and stark,
By lawful turn my living to earn
Between the light and dark ;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon and drop of beer
But all from the hand that holds the land,
And none from the overseer !
No parish money, or loaf,
No pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
No alms I ask, give me my task :
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work, and not to beg.
Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though doom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean
Instead of the fat of the earth ;
To make such humble meals
As honest labor can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man !
A spade ! a rake ! a hoe !
A pickaxe, or a bill !
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will ;
Whatever the tool to ply,
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge !
Who every weekly score
Docks labor's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the temple-door,
But robb'd them over night.
The very shilling he hop'd to save,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the New Bastile,
The Spital or the Gaol !
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS
ONE more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death !
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements ;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing ;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully ;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly ;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutif id :
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses ;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home ?
Who was her father ?
Who was her mother ?
Had she a sister ?
Had she a brother ?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other ?
Alas ! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun !
Oh ! it was pitiful !
HOOD-SIMMONS
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed :
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence ;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver,
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river ;
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd
Any where, any where
Out of the world !
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,
Over the brink of it,
Picture it think of it,
Dissolute Man !
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can !
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care ;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair !
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them ;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly !
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely, .
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest,
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast.
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour I
STANZAS
FAREWELL, Life ! my senses swim,
And the wprld is growing dim ;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night ;
Colder, colder, colder still,.
Upward steals a vapor chill ;
Strong the earthy odor grows
I smell the mould above the rose (
Welcome, Life ! the Spirit strives I
Strength returns and hope revives ;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn ;
O'er the earth there comes a bloom ;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold
I smell the rose above the mould I
25artl)olomcto
JTANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF
THOMAS HOOD
TAKE back into thy bosonc, earth,
This joyous, May-eyed morrow,
The gentlest child that evei mirth
Gave to be rear'd by sorrow !
'Tis hard while rays half green,
gold,
Through vernal bowers are burning,
half
124
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
And streams their diamond-mirrors hold
To summer's face returning
To say we 're thankful that his sleep
Shall never more be lighter,
In whose sweet-tongued companionship
Stream, bower, and beam grew brighter !
But all the more intensely true
His soul gave out each feature
Of elemental love each hue
And grace of golden nature ;
The deeper still beneath it all
Lurk'd the keen jags of anguish ;
The more the laurels clasp'd his brow
Their poison made it languish.
Seem'd it that like the nightingale
Of his own mournful singing,
The tenderer would his song prevail
While most the thorn was stinging.
So never to the desert-worn
Did fount bring freshness deeper,
Than that his placid rest this morn
Has brought the shrouded sleeper.
That rest may lap his weary head
Where charnels choke the city,
Or where, mid woodlands, by his bed
The wren shall wake its ditty ;
But near or far, while evening's star
Is dear to hearts regretting,
Around that spot admiring thought
Shall hover, unforgetting.
And if this sentient, seething world
Is, after all, ideal,
Or in the immaterial furl'd
Alone resides the real,
Freed one ! there 's a wail for thee this
hour
Through thy lov'd elves' dominions ;
Hush'd is each tiny trumpet-flower,
And droopeth Ariel's pinions ;
Even Puck, dejected, leaves his swing,
To plan, with fond endeavor,
What pretty buds and dews shall keep
Thy pillow bright for ever.
And higher, if less happy, tribes,
The race of early childhood,
Shall miss thy whims of frolic wit,
That in the summer wild-wood,
Or by the Christmas hearth, were hail'd,
And hoarded as a treasure
Of undecaying merriment
And ever-changing pleasure.
Things from thy lavish humor flung
Profuse as scents, are flying
This kindling morn, when blooms are born
As fast as blooms are dying.
Sublimer art owned thy control :
The minstrel's mightiest magic,
With sadness to subdue the soul,
Or thrill it with the tragic.
Now listening Aram's fearful dream,
We see beneath the willow
That dreadful thing, or watch him steal,
Guilt-lighted, to his pillow.
Now with thee roaming ancient groves,
We watch the woodman felling
The funeral elm, while through its boughs
The ghostly wind comes knelling.
Dear worshipper of Dian's face
In solitary places,
Shali thou no more steal, as of yore,
To meet her white embraces ?
Is there no purple in the rose
Henceforward to thy senses ?
For thee have dawn and daylight's close
Lost their sweet influences ?
No ! by the mental night untam'd
Thou took'st to death's dark portal,
The joy of the wide universe
Is now to thee immortal !
How fierce contrasts the city's roar
With thy new-conquer'd quiet !
This stunning hell of wheels that pour
With princes to their riot !
Loud clash the crowds the busy clouds
With thunder-noise are shaken,
While pale, and mute, and cold, afar
Thou liest, men-forsaken.
Hot life reeks on, nor recks that one
The playful, human-hearted
Who lent its clay less earthiness,
Is just from earth departed.
H. MARTINEAU BLANCH ARD
Harriet apartincau
ON, ON, FOREVER
BENEATH this starry arch
Nought resteth or is still ;
But all things hold their march,
As if by one great will :
Moves one, move all : hark to the foot-fall !
On, on, forever I
Yon sheaves were once but seed ;
Will ripens into deed ;
As cave-drops swell the streams,
Day-thoughts feed nightly dreams ;
And sorrow tracketh wrong,
As echo follows song :
On, on, forever !
By night, like stars on high,
The Hours reveal their train ;
They whisper and go by :
I never watch in vain.
Moves one, move all : hark to the foot
fall !
On, on, forever !
They pass the cradle-head,
And there a promise shed ;
They pass the moist new grave,
And bid rank verdure wave ;
They bear through every clime
The harvests of all time.
On, on, forever !
Xaman SManrftarfc
NELL GWYNNE'S LOOKING-
GLASS
J8 antique, 'twixt thee and Nell
iw we here a parallel,
like thee, was forced to bear
reflections, foul or fair.
Thou art deep and bright within,
Depths as bright belong'd to Gwynne ;
Thou art very frail as well,
Frail as flesh is, so was Nell.
Thou, her glass, art silver-lin'd,
Sin- too, had a silver mind :
Thine is fresh till this far day,
Hers till death ne'er wore away :
Thou dost to thy surface win
Wandering glances, so did Gwynne ;
Eyes on thee long love to dwell,
So men's eyes would do on Nell.
Life-like forms in thee are sought,
Such the forms the actress wrought ;
Truth unfailing rests in you,
Nell, whate'er she was, was true.
Clear as virtue, dull as sin,
Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne ;
Breathe ou thee, and drops will swell :
Bright tears dimm'd the eyes of Nell.
Thine 's a frame to charm the sight,
Frain'd was she to give delight,
Waxen forms here truly show
Charles above and Nell below ;
But between them, chin with chin,
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne,
Paired, yet parted, meant to tell
Charles was opposite to Nell.
Round the glass wherein her face
Smil'd so oft, her " arms " we trace ;
Thou, her mirror, hast the pair,
Lion here, and leopard there.
She had part in these, akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynno ;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding NelL
Oft inspected, ne'er seen through,
Thou art firm, if brittle too ;
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.
What the glass was, when therein
Beam'd the face of glad Nell Gwynn^
Was that face by beauty's spell
To the honest soul of Nell.
126
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
HIDDEN JOYS
PLEASURES lie thickest where no pleasures
seem :
There 's not a leaf that falls upon the ground
But holds some joy, of silence, or^ of sound,
Some sprite begotten of a summer dream.
The very meanest things are made supreme
With innate ecstacy. No grain of sand
But moves a bright and million-peopled
land,
And hath its Edeus and its Eves, I deem.
For Love, though blind himself, a curious
eye
Hath lent me, to behold the hearts of
things,
And touch'd mine ear with power. Thus,
far or nigh,
Minute or mighty, fix'd or free with
wings,
Delight from many a nameless covert
sly
Peeps sparkling, and in tones familiar
sings.
THE NET-BRAIDERS
WITHIN a low-thatch'd hut, built in a lane
Whose narrow pathway tendeth toward
the ocean,
A solitude which, save of some rude swain
Or fisherman, doth scarce know human
motion
Or of some silent poet, to the main
Straying, to offer infinite devotion
To God, in the free universe there dwelt
Two women old, to whom small store was
dealt
Of the world's misnam'd good : mother
and child,
Both aged and mateless. These two life
sustain'd
By braiding fishing-nets ; and so beguiPd
Time and their cares, and little e'er com-
plain'd
Of Fate or Providence : resign'd and mild,
Whilst day by day, for years, their. hour
glass rain'd
Its trickling sand, to track the wing of time,
They toil'd in peace ; and much there was
sublime
ID their obscure contentment : of mankind
They little knew, or reck'd ; but for their
being
They bless'd their Maker, with a simple
mind ;
And in the constant gaze of his all-
seeing
Eye, to his poorest creatures never blind,
Deeming they dwelt, they bore their
sorrows Heeing,
Glad still to live, but not afraid to die,
In calm expectance of Eternity.
And since I first did greet those braiders
poor,
If ever I behold fair women's cheeks
Sin-pale in stately mansions, where the
door
Is shut to all but pride, my cleft heart
seeks ^
For refuge in my thoughts, which then ex
plore
That pathway lone near which the wild
sea breaks,
And to Imagination's humble eyes
That hut, with all its want, is Paradise !
BIRTH AND DEATH
METHINKS the soul within the body held
Is as a little babe within the womb,
Which flutters in its antenatal tomb,
But stirs and heaves the prison where 't is
cell'd,
And struggles in strange darkness, undis-
pell'd
By all its strivings towards the breath and
bloom
Of that aurorean being soon to come
Strivings of feebleness, by nothing quell'd :i
And even as birth to the enfranchis'd
child,
Which shows to its sweet senses all the
vast
Of beauty visible and audible,
Is death unto the spirit undefil'd ;
Setting it free of limit, and the past,
And all that in its prison-house befell.
COOPER SARAH F. ADAMS
127
CHARTIST SONG
THE time shall come when wrong shall end,
When peasant to peer no more shall bend ;
When the lordly Few shall lose their sway,
And the Many no more their frown obey.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is
done,
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter
won !
The time shall come when the artisan
Shall homage no more the titled man ;
When the moiling men who delve the mine
By Mammon's decree no more shall pine.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done,
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter
won.
The time shall come when the weavers'
band
Shall hunger no more in their fatherland ;
When the factory-child can sleep till day,
And smile while it dreams of sport and
play.
Cooper
Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done,
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter
The time shall come when Man shall hold
His brother more dear than sordid gold ;
When the negro's stain his freebom mind
Shall sever no more from human-kind.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free,
Till Justice and Love hold jubilee.
The time shall come when kingly crown
And mitre for toys of the past are shown ;
When the fierce and false alike shall fall,
And mercy and truth encircle all.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free,
Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee !
The time shall come when earth shall be
A garden of joy, from sea to sea,
When the slaughterous sword is drawn no
more,
And goodness exults from shore to shore.
Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free,
Till goodness shall hold high jubilee !
f lotoet
HYMN
HE sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,
Alike they 're needful for the flower :
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father 1 thy will, not mine, be done !
Can loving children e'er reprove
With murmurs whom they trust and love ?
Creator ! I would ever be
A trusting, loving child to thee :
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father ! thy will, not mine, be done !
Oh, ne'er will I at life repine :
Enough that thou hast made it mine.
When falls the shadow cold of death
I yet will sing, with parting breath,
As comes to me or shade or sun.
Father ! thy will, not mine, be done !
LOVE
O LOVE ! thou makest all things even
In earth or heaven ;
Finding thy way through prison-bars
Up to the stars ;
Or, true to the Almighty plan,
That out of dust created man,
Thou lookest in a grave, to see
Thine immortality t
NEARER TO THEE
NEARER, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee !
E'en though it be a cross
That raiseth me ;
Still all my sou* shall be,
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee !
128
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Though like the wanderer,
The sun gone down,
Darkness be over me,
My rest a stone ;
Yet in my dreams I 'd be
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee !
There let the way appear
Steps unto heaven ;
All that thou send'st to me
In mercy given ;
Angels to beckon me
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee !
Then, with my waking thoughts
Bright with thy praise,
Out of my stony griefs
Bethel I '11 raise ;
So by my woes to be
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee !
Or if on joyful wing
Cleaving the sky,
Sun, moon, and stars forgot,
' Upward I fly,
Still all my song shall be,
Nearer, my God, to thee,
Nearer to thee !
25totoning
THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN
Do ye hear the children weeping, O my
brothers,
Ere the sorrow comes with years ?
They are leaning their young heads against
their mothers,
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the mead
ows,
The young birds are chirping in the nest,
The young fawns are playing with the
shadows,
The young flowers are blowing toward
the west :
But the young, young children, O my
brothers,
They are weeping bitterly !
They are weeping in the playtime of the
others,
In the country of the free.
Do you question the young children in the
sorrow
Why their tears are falling so ?
The old man may weep for his to-morrow
Which is lost in Long Ago ;
The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,
The old hope is hardest to be lost :
But the young, young children, O my
brothers,
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of theii
mothers,
In our happy Fatherland ?
They look up with their pale and sunken
faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man's hoary anguish draws and
presses
Down the cheeks of infancy ;
" Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary,
Our young feet," they say, "are very
weak ;
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary
Our grave-rest is very far to seek :
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the
children,
For the outside earth is cold,
And we young ones stand without, in our
bewildering,
And the graves are for the old."
" True," say the children, " it may happen
That we die before our time :
Little Alice died last year, her grave ia
shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take
her :
Was no room for any work in the close
clay !
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will
wake her,
Crying, Get up, little Alice ! it is day.*
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
129
If you listen by that grave, in sun and
shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never
cries :
| Could we see her face, be sure we should
not know her,
For the smile has time for growing in her
eyes :
And merry go her moments, lull'd and
still'd in
The shroud by the kirk-chime,
is good when it happens," say the chil
dren,
" That we die before our time."
alas, the children ! they are seeking
Death in life, as best to have :
3y are binding up their hearts away from
breaking,
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from
the city,
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes
do;
luck your handfuls of the meadow-cow
slips pretty,
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let
them through !
hit they answer, "Are your cowslips of
" the meadows
Like our weeds anear the mine ?
ive us quiet in the dark of the coal-
shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine !
For oh," say the children, " we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap ;
we car'd for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep,
ir knees tremble sorely in the stooping,
We fall upon our faces, trying to go ;
1, underneath our heavy eyelids droop
ing.
The reddest flower would look as pale as
snow.
>r, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal-dark, underground,
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.
* For all day, the wheels are droning, turn-
Their wind comes in our faces,
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses
burning,
And the walls turn in their places :
Turns the sky in the high window blank and
reeling,
Turns the long light that drops adown the
wall,
Turn the black flies that crawl along the
ceiling,
All are turning, all the day, and we with
all.
And all day, the iron wheels are droning,
And sometimes we could pray,
' O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad
moaning)
' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' "
Ay, be silent i Let them hear each other
breathing
For a moment, mouth to mouth !
Let them touch each other's hands, in a
fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth I
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals :
Let them prove their living souls against
the notion
That they live in you, or under you, O
wheels !
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark ;
And the children's souls, which God is call
ing sunward,
Spin on blindly in the dark.
Now tell the poor young children, O my
brothers,
To look up to Him and pray ;
So the blessed One who blesseth all the
others,
Will bless them another day.
They answer, " Who is God that lie should
hear us,
While the rushing of the iron wheels it
stirr'd ?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures
near us
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a
word.
And we hear not (for the wheels in their
resounding)
Strangers speaking at the door :
Is it likely God, with angels singing round
Him,
Hears our weeping any more ?
"Two words, indeed, of praying we re
member,
And at midnight's hour of harm,
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Our Father,' looking upward in the cham
ber,
We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words except * Our
Father,'
And we think that, in some pause of
angels' song,
God may pluck them with the silence sweet
to gather,
And hold both within His right hand
which is strong.
Our Father ! ' If He heard us, He would
surely
(For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very
purely,
* Come and rest with me, my child/
" But, no ! " say the children, weeping
faster,
" He is speechless as a stone :
And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.
Go to ! " say the children, " up in heaven,
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all
we find.
Do not mock us ; grief has made us unbe
lieving :
We look up for God, but tears have made
us blind."
Do you hear the children weeping and dis
proving,
O my brothers, what ye preach ?
For God's possible is taught by His world's
loving,
And the children doubt of each.
And well may the children weep before you!
They are weary ere they run ;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the
glory
Which is brighter than the sun.
They know the grief of man, without its
wisdom ;
They sink in man's despair, without its
calm ;
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom,
Are martyrs, by the pang without the
palm :
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly
The harvest of its memories cannot
reap,
Are orphans of the earthly love and heav
enly.
Let them weep ! let them weep !
They look up with their pale and sunken
faces,
And their look is dread to see,
For they mind you of their angels in high
places,
With eyes turned on Deity.
" How long," they say, " how long, O cruel
nation,
Will you stand, to move the world, on 3
child's heart,
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpita
tion,
And tread onward tt your throne amid
the mart ?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper,
And your purple shows your path !
But the child's sob in the silence curses
deeper
Than the strong man in his wrath."
MY HEART AND I
ENOUGH ! we 're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carv'd for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As Heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we 're tired, my heart and I.
You see we 're tired, my heart and I.
We dealt with books, we trusted men,
And in our own blood drench'd the pen,
As if such colors could not fly.
We walk'd too straight for fortune's end,
We lov'd too true to keep a friend ;
At last we 're tired, my heart and I.
How tired we feel, my heart and I !
We seem of no use in the world ;
Our fancies hang gray and uncurl'd
About men's eyes indifferently ;
Our voice which thrill'd you so, will let
You sleep ; our tears are only wet :
What do we here, my heart and I ?
So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
It was not thus in that old time
When Ralph sat with me 'neath the lime
To watch the sunset from the sky.
" Dear love, you 're looking tired," he
said :
I, smiling at him, shook my head.
'T is now we 're tired, my heart and I.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
So tired, so tired, my heart and I !
Though now none takes me on his arm
To fold me close and kiss me warm
jTill each quick breath end in a sigh
Of happy languor. Now, alone,
We lean upon this graveyard stone,
lUncheer'd, unkiss'd, my heart and I.
Tirt-d out we are, my heart and I.
Suppose the world brought diadems
To tempt us, crusted with loose gems
Of powers and pleasures ? Let it try.
We scarcely care to look at even
A pretty child, or God's blue heaven,
We feel so tired, my heart and I.
r et who complains ? My heart and I ?
In this abundant earth no doubt
Is little room for things worn out :
lain them, break them, throw them by !
And if before the days grew rough
We once were lov'd, us'd, well enough,
think, we 've far'd, my heart and I.
iNNETS FROM THE PORTU
GUESE
THOUGHT once how Theocritus had sung
the sweet years, the dear and wish'd-
f or years,
each one in a gracious hand appears
bear a gift for mortals, old or young :
1, as I mus'd it in his antique tongue,
saw, in gradual vision through my tears,
sweet,*sad years, the melancholy years,
of my own life, who by turns had flung
shadow across me. Straightway I was
'ware,
weeping, how a mystic Shape did move
lind me, and drew me backward by the
hair ;
L voice said in mastery, while I
strove,
* Guess now who holds thee ! " " Death,"
I said. But, there,
The silver answer rang " Not Death, but
Love."
IV
THOU hast thy calling to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems 1 where
The dancers will break footing, from the care
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.
And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor
For hand of thine ? and canst thou think
and bear
To let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door ?
Look up and see the casement broken in,
The bats and owlets builders in the roof I
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.
Hush, call no echo up in further proof
Of desolation ! there 's a voice within
That weeps ... as thou must sing . . .
alone, aloof.
I LIFT my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I overturn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly barn
Through the ashen grayuess. If thy foot
in scorn
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well perhaps. But if instead
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
The gray dust up, ... those laurels on
thine head,
O my Beloved, will not shield thee so,
That none of all the fires shall scorch and
shred
The hair beneath. Stand further off then !
go !
VI
Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I fore-
bore
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest
land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in
mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the
wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when 1
sue
God for myself, He hears that name of
thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
I 3 2
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
IX
CAN it be right to give what I can give ?
To let thee sit beneath the fall of tears
As salt as mine, and hear the sighing years
Re-sighing on my lips renunciative
Through those infrequent smiles which fail
to live
For all thy adjurations ? O my fears,
That this can scarce be right ! We are not
peers
So to be lovers ; and I own, and grieve,
That givers of such gifts as mine are, must
Be counted with the ungenerous. Out, alas !
I will not soil thy purple with my dust,
Nor breathe my poison on thy Venice-glass,
Nor give thee any love which were unjust.
Beloved, I only love thee ! let it pass.
XVIII
I NEVER gave a lock of hair away
To a man, Dearest, except this to thee,
Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully
I ring out to the full brown length and
say
"Take it." My day of youth went yester
day ;
My hair no longer bounds to my foot's glee,
Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree,
As girls do, any more : it only may
Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of
tears,
Taught drooping from the head that hangs
aside
Through sorrow's trick. I thought the
funeral-shears
Would take this first, but Love is justi
fied,
Take it thou, finding pure, from all those
years,
The kiss my mother left here when she died.
XX
BELOVED, my Beloved, when I think
That thou wast in the world a year ago,
What time I sat alone here in the snow
And saw no footprint, heard the silence
sink
No moment at thy voice, but, link by link,
Went counting all my chains as if that so
They never could fall off at any blow
Struck by thy possible hand, why, thus I
drink
Of life's great cup of wonder ! Wonderful,
Never to feel thee thrill the day or night
With personal act or speech, nor ever
cull
Some prescience of thee with the blossoms
white
Thou sawest growing ! Atheists are as
dull,
Who cannot guess God's presence out of
sight.
XXII
WHEN our two souls stand up erect and
strong,
Face to face, silent, drawing nigh and
nigher,
Until the lengthening wings break into fire
At either curved point, what- bitter wrong
Can the earth do to us, that we should not
long
Be here contented ? Think ! In mounting
higher,
The angels would press on us and aspire
To drop some golden orb of perfect song
Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay
Rather on earth, Beloved, where the unfit
Contrarious moods of men recoil away
And isolate pure spirits, and permit
A place to stand and love in for a day,
With darkness and the death-hour rounding
it.
XXIII
Is it indeed so ? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine ?
And would the sun for thee more coldly
shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my
head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine
But . . . so much to thee ? Can I pour
thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul,
instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life's lower
range.
Then, love me, Love ! look on me breathe
on me !
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and ex
change
My near sweet view of heaven, for earth
with thee !
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
'33
XXVI
I LIV'D with visions for my company
Instead of men and women, years ago,
And found them gentle mates, nor thought
to know
A sweeter music than they play'd to me.
But soon their trailing purple was not free
Of this world's dust, their lutes did silent
grow,
And I myself grew faint and blind below
Their vanishing eyes. Then THOU didst
come to be,
Beloved, what they seem'd. Their shining
fronts,
Their songs, their splendors, (better, yet
the same,
As river-water hallow'd into fonts)
Met in thee, and from out thee overcame
My soul with satisfaction of all wants :
Because God's gift puts man's best dreams
to shame.
XXXV
IF I leave all for thee, wilt thou exchange
And be all to me ? Shall I never miss
Home-talk and blessing and the coinmcn
kiss
That comes to each in turn, nor count it
strange,
len I look up, to drop on a new range
walls and floors, another home than this ?
Nay, wilt thou fill that place by me which
is
U'd by dead eyes too tender to know
change
That 's hardest ? If to conquer love, has
tried,
To conquer grief, tries more, as all things
prove,
.For grief indeed is love and grief beside.
Alas, I have griev'd so I am hard to love.
Yet love me wilt thou? Open thine
heart wide,
And fold within the wet wings of thy dove.
XXXVIII
ST time he kiss'd me, he but only kiss'd
: The fingers of this hand wherewith I write ;
And ever since, it grew more clean and
white,
Slow to world-greetings, quick with its
" Oh, list,"
When the angels speak. A ring of ame-
thyst
I could not wear here, plainer to my sight,
Than that first kiss. The second pass'd in
height
The first, and sought the forehead, and half
Half falling on the hair. O beyond meed !
That was the chrism of love, which love'g
own crown,
With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
The third upon my lips was folded down
In perfect, purple state ; since when, in-
deed,
I have been proud and said, " My love, my
own."
XXXIX
BECAUSE thou hast the power and own'st
the grace
To look through and behind this mask of
me,
(Against which, years have beat thus
blanchingly
With their rains,) and behold my soul's
true face,
The dim and weary witness of life's race,
Because thou hast the faith and love to see,
Through that same soul's distracting
lethargy,
The patient angel waiting for a place
In the new Heavens, because nor sin
nor woe,
Nor God's infliction, nor death's neighbor
hood,
Nor all which others viewing, turn to go,
Nor all which makes me tired of all, self-
vie w'd,
Nothing repels thee, . . . Dearest, teach
me so
To pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good I
XLI
I THANK all who have lovM me ir their
hearts,
With thanks and love from mine. Deep
thanks to all
Who paus'd a little near the prison-wall
To hear my music in its louder parts f
Ere they went onward, each one to the
mart's
Or temple's occupation, beyond call.
But thou, who, in my voice's sink and fall
When the sob took it, thy divineet Art s
134
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Own instrument didst drop down at thy
foot
To hearken what I said between my
tears, . . .
Instruct me how to thank thee ! Oh, to
shoot
My soul's full meaning into future years,
That they should lend it utterance, and
salute
Love that endures, from Life that disap
pears !
XLIII
How do I love thee ? Let me count the
ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and
height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of
sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right ;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's
faith.
I love thee with a love I seem'd to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the
breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life ! and, if God
choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT
WHAT was he doing, the great god Pan,
Down in the reeds by the river ?
Spreading ruin and scattering ban,
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat,
And breaking the golden lilies afloat
With the dragon-fly on the river.
He tore out a reed, the great god Pan,
From the deep cool bed of the river :
The limpid water turbidly ran,
And the broken lilies a-dying lay,
And the dragon-fly had fled away,
Ere he brought it out of the river.
High on the shore sat the great god Pan,
While turbidly flow'd the river ;
And hack'd and hew'd as a great god
can,
With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed,
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed
To prove it fresh from the river.
He cut it short, did the great god Pan,
(How tall it stood in the river !)
Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man,
Steadily from the outside ring,
And notch'd the poor dry empty thing
In holes, as he sat by the river.
" This is the way," laugh'd the great god
Pan,
(Laugh'd while he sat by the river,)
" The only way, since gods began
To make sweet music, they could succeed.*'
Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the
reed,
He blew in power by the river.
Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan !
Piercing sweet by the river !
Blinding sweet, O great god Pan !
The sun on the hill forgot to die,
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly
Came back to dream on the river.
Yet half a beast is the great god Pan,
To laugh as he sits by the river,
Making a poet out of a man :
The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,
For the reed which grows nevermore again
As a reed with the reeds in the river.
FROM "CASA GUIDI WINDOWS"
JULIET OF NATIONS
I HP:ARD last night a little child go singing
'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the
church,
bella liberta, bella ! stringing
The same words still on notes he went in
search
So high for, you concluded the upspringing
Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch
Must leave the whole bush in a tremble
green,
And that the heart of Italy must beat,
While such a voice had leave to rise serene
'Twixt church and palace of a Florence
street :
A little child, too, who not long had been
By mother's finger steadied on his feet,
And still O bella liberta he sang.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
'35
Then I thought, musing, of the innumer-
ous
Sweet songs which still for Italy out-
rang
From older singers' lips who sang not thus
Exultingly and purely, yet, with pang
Fast sheath'd in music, touch'd the heart
of us
So finely that the pity scarcely pain'd.
I thought how Filicaja led on others,
Bewailers for their Italy enchaiu'd,
And how they calFd her childless among
mothers,
Widow of empires, ay, and scarce re-
frain'd
Cursing her beauty to her face, as brothers
Might a sham'd sister's, " Had she
been less fair
She were less wretched ; " how, evoking
so
From congregated wrong and heap'd de
spair
Of men and women writhing under blow,
Harrow'd and hideous in a filthy lair,
Some personating Image wherein woe
Was wrapp'd in beauty from offending
much,
They call'd it Cybele, or Niobe,
Or laid it corpse-like on a bier for
such,
Where all the world might drop for Italy
Those cadenced tears which burn not
where they touch,
u Juliet of nations, canst thou die as we ?
And was the violet that crown'd thy
head
So over-large, though new buds made it
rough,
It slipp'd down and across thine eyelids
dead,
O sweet, fair Juliet?" Of such songs
enough,
Too many of such complaints ! behold,
instead,
Void at Verona, Juliet's marble trough :
As void as that is, are all images
Men set between themselves and actual
wrong,
To catch the weight of pity, meet the
stress
Of conscience, since 't is easier to gaze
long
On mournful masks and sad effigies
Than on real, live, weak creatures crush'd
by strong.
SURSUM CORDA
The sun strikes, through the windows, up
the floor ;
Stand out in it, my own young Florentine,
Not two years old, and let me see the*
more 1
It grows along thy amber curia, to shine
Brighter than elsewhere. Now, look
straight before,
And fix thy brave blue English eyes on
mine,
And from my soul, which fronts the fu
ture so,
With unabash'd and unabated gaze,
Teach me to hope for, what the angeU
know
When they smile clear as thou dost. Down
God's ways
With just alighted feet, between the
snow
And snowdrops, where a little lamb may
graze,
Thou hast no fear, my lamb, about the
road,
Albeit in our vain-glory we assume
That, less than we have, thou hast learnt
of God.
Stand out, my blue-eyed prophet ! thou,
to whom
The earliest world-day light that ever
flow'd,
Through Casa Guidi windows chanced to
come !
Now shake the glittering nimbus of thy
hair.
And be God's witness that the elemental
New springs of life are gushing every-
where
To cleanse the water-courses, and prevent all
Concrete obstructions which mfeat the
air!
That earth 's alive, and gentle or ungentle
Motions within her, signify but
growth !
The ground swells greenest o'er the labor
ing moles.
Howe'er the uneasy world U vex'd and
wroth,
Young children, lifted high on parent souta,
Look round them with a smile upon the
mouth,
And take for music every bell that tolls ;
(WHO said we should be better if liki
these?;
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
But we sit murmuring for the future though
Posterity is smiling on our knees,
Convicting us of folly. Let us go
We will trust God. The blank interstices
Men take for ruins, He will build into
With pillar'd marbles rare, or knit across
With generous arches, till the fane 's com
plete.
This world has no perdition, if some loss.
Such cheer I gather from thy smiling, Sweet !
The self-same cherub-faces which emboss
The Vail, lean inward to the Mercy-seat.
A COURT LADY
HER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes
with purple were dark,
Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and
restless spark.
Never was lady of Milan nobler in name
and in race ;
Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the
face.
Never was lady on earth more true as
woman and wife,
Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder
in manners and life.
She stood in the early morning, and said
to her maidens, " Bring
That silken robe made ready to wear at
the court of the king.
" Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid,
clear of the mote,
Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp
me the small at the throat.
"Diamonds to fasten the hair, and dia
monds to fasten the sleeves,
Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder
of snow from the eaves."
Gorgeous she enter'd the sunlight which
gather'd her up in a flante,
While, straight in her open carriage, she to
the hospital came.
In she went at the door, and gazing from
end to end,
"Many and low are the pallets, but each
is the place of a friend."
Up she pass'd through the wards, and
stood at a young man's bed :
Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the
droop of his head.
" Art thou a Lombard, my brother ?
Happy art thou," she cried,
And smiled like Italy on him : he dream'd
in her face and died.
Pale with his passing soul, she went on still
to a second :
He was a grave hard man, whose years by
dungeons were reckon 'd.
Wourds in his body were sore, wounds in
his life were sorer.
" Art thou a Romagnole ? " Her eyes
drove lightnings before her
" Austrian and priest had join'd to double
and tighten the cord
Able to bind thee, O strong one, free by
the stroke of a sword.
" Now be grave for the rest of us, using
the life overcast
To ripen our wine of the present, (too new,)
in glooms of the past."
Down she stepp'd to a pallet where lay a
face like a girl's,
Young, and pathetic with dying, a deep
black hole in the eurls.
"Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and
seest thou, dreaming in pain,
Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching
the List of the slain ? "
Kind as a mother herself, she touch'd his
cheeks with her hands :
"Blessed is she who has borne thee, al
though she should weep as she
stands."
On she pass'd to a Frenchman, his arm
carried off by a ball :
Kneeling, . . . " O more than my brother I
how shall I thank thee for all ?
" Each of the heroes around us has fought
for his land and line,
But thou hast fought for a stranger, in hate
of a wrong not thine.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
'37
" Happy are all free peoples, too strong to
be dispossessed :
But blessed are those among nations, who
dare to be strong for the rest ! "
Ever she pass'd on her way, and came to a
couch where pin'd
One with a face from Venetia, white with a
hope out of mind.
Long she stood and gaz'd, and twice she
tried at the name,
But two great crystal tears were all that
falter'd and came.
Only a tear for Venice ? she turn'd as in
passion and loss,
And stoop'd to his forehead and kiss'd it,
as if she were kissing the cross.
Faint with that strain of heart she mov'd
on then to another,
Stern and strong in his death. " And dost
thou suffer, my brother ? "
Holding his hands in hers : " Out of the
Piedmont lion
Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweet
est to live or to die on."
Holding his cold rough hands, " Well,
oh, well have ye done
In noftle, noble Piedmont, who would not
be noble alone."
:k he fell while she spoke. She rose to
her feet with a spring,
**That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the
Court of the King."
MOTHER AND POET
TURIN, AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, l86l
DEAD ! One of them shot by the sea in
the east,
And one of them shot in the west by the
sea.
Dead ! both my boys ! When you sit at
the feast
And are wanting a great song for Italy
free,
Let none look at me I
Yet I was a poetess only last year,
And good at my art, for a woman, men
said ;
But this woman, this, who is agoniz'd here,
The east sea and west sea rhyme on
in her head
For ever instead.
What art can a woman be good at ? Oh,
vain!
What art ts she good at, but hurting her
breast
With the milk-teeth of babes, and a smile
at the pain ?
Ah boys, how you hurt ! you were strong
as you press'd,
And I proud, by that test.
What art 's for a woman ? To hold on her
knees
Both darlings ; to feel all their arms
round her throat,
Cling, strangle a little, to sew by degrees
And 'broider the long-clothes and neat
little coat ;
To dream and to doat.
To teach them ... It stings there! /
made them indeed
Speak plain the word country. I taught
them, .no doubt,
That a country 's a thing men should die
for at need.
/ prated of liberty, rights, and about
The tyrant cast out.
And when their eyes flash'd ... O my
beautiful eyes ! . . .
I exulted ; nay, let them go forth at the
wheels
Of the guns, and denied not. But then
the surprise
When one sits quite alone ! Then one
weeps, then one kneels !
God, how the house feels !
At first, happy news came, in gay letters
moil'd ,
With my kisses, of camp-life and
glory, and how
They both lov'd me; and, soon coming
home to be spoil'd,
In return would fan off every fly from
my brow
With their green laurel-bough.
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Then was triumph at Turin : " Ancona
was free ! "
And someone came out of the cheers in
the street,
With a face pale as stone, to say something
to me.
My Guido was dead I I fell down at his
feet,
While they cheer'd in the street.
I bore it ; friends sooth'd me ; my grief
look'd sublime
As the ransom of Italy. One boy re-
main'd
To be leant on and walk'd with, recalling
the time
When the first grew immortal, while
both of us strain'd
To the height he had gain'd.
And letters still came, shorter, sadder, more
strong,
Writ now but in one hand, " I was not to
faint,
One lov'd me for two would be with me
ere long :
And Viva I* Italia! he died for, our
saint,
Who forbids our complaint."
My Nanni would add, "he was safe, and
aware
Of a presence that turn'd off the balls,
was impress'd
Ifc was Guido himself, who knew what I
could bear,
And how 't was impossible, quite dispos-
sess'd,
"To live on for the rest."
On tfhich, without pause, up the telegraph-
line,
Swept smoothly the next news from
Gaeta : Shot .
TsU his mother. Ah, ah, " his," " their "
mother, not " mine,"
No voice says "My mother" again to
me. What!
You think Guido forg'ot ?
Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with
Heaven,
They drop earth's affections, conceive
not of woe ?
I think not. Themselves were too lately
forgiven
Through THAT Love and Sorrow which
reconcil'd so
The Above and Below.
O Christ of the five wounds, who look dst
through the dark
To the face of Thy mother ! consider, I
How we common mothers stand desolate,
mark,
Whose sons, not being Christs, die with
eyes turn'd away,
And no last word to say !
Both boys dead ? but that 's out of nature.
We all
Have been patriots, yet each house must
always keep one.
'T were imbecile, hewing out roads to a wall;
And, when Italy 's made, for what end is
it done
If we have not a son ?
Ah, ah, ah ! when Gaeta 's taken, what
then ?
When the fair wicked queen sits no more
at her sport
Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out
of men ?
When the guns of Cavalli with final re
tort
Have cut the game short ?
When Venice and Rome keep their new
jubilee,
When your flag takes all heaven for its
white, green, and red,
When you have your country from moun
tain to sea,
When King Victor has Italy's crown on
his head,
(And / have my Dead)
What then ? Do not mock me. Ah, ring
your bells low,
And burn your lights faintly ! My
country is there,
Above the star prick'd by the last peak of
snow :
My Italy 's THERE, with my brave civio
Pair,
To disfranchise despair 1
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
'39
Forgive me. Some women bear children
in strength,
And bite back the cry of their pain in
self-scorn ;
But the birth-pangs of nations will wring
us at length
Into wail such as this and we sit on
forlorn
When the man-child is born.
Dead ! One of them shot by the sea in the
east,
And one of them shot in the west by the
sea,
Both ! both my boys ! If in keeping the feast
You want a great song for your Italy free,
Let none look at me.
[This was Laura Savio, of Turin, a poet and patriot,
whose sons were killed at Aucona and Gaeta.]
FROM "AURORA LEIGH"
MOTHERLESS
I WRITE. My mother was a Florentine,
Whose rare blue eyes were shut from see
ing me
When scarcely I was four years old ; my
life,
A poor spark snatch 'd up from a failing
lamp
Which went out therefore. She was weak
and frail ;
She could not bear the joy of giving life
The mother's rapture slew her. If her kiss
Had left a longer weight upon my lips,
It might have steadied the uneasy breath,
And reconcil'd and fraterniz'd my soul
With the new order. As it was, indeed,
I felt a mother-want about the world,
And still went seeking, like a bleating lamb
Left out at night, in shutting up the fold,
As restless as a nest-deserted bird
Grown chill through something being away,
though what
It knows not. I, Aurora Leigh, was born
To make my father sadder, and myself
Not overjoyous, truly. Women know
The way to rear up children (to be just,)
They know a simple, merry, tender knack
Of tying sashes, fitting baby-shoes,
And stringing pretty words that make no
sense,
And kissing full sense into empty words ;
Which things are corals to cut life upon,
Although such trifles : children learn by
such,
Love's holy earnest in a pretty play,
And get not over-early solemniz'd,
But seeing, as in a rose-bush, Love 's Divine,
Which burns and hurts not, not a single
bloom,
Become aware and unafraid of Love, he
Such good do mothers. Fathers love as
well
Mine did, I know, but still with
heavier brains,
And wills more consciously responsible,
And not as wisely, since less foolishly ;
So mothers have God's license to be unss'd.
BOOKS
Or else I sat on in my chamber green,
And liv'd my life, and thought my thoughts,
and pray'd
My prayers without the vicar ; read my
books,
Without considering whether they were fit
To do me good. Mark, there. We get no
By being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits ... so much help
By so much reading. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's pro
found,
Impassion'd for its beauty and salt of
truth
'Tis then we get the right good from a
book.
THE POETS
I had found the secret of a garret-room
Pil'd high with cases in my father's name ;
Pil'd high, pack'd large, where, creeping
in and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the
ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how 1 felt it
beat
Under my pillow, in the morning's dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read !
My books !
140
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
At last, because the time was ripe,
I chanced upon the poets.
As the earth
Plunges in fury, when the internal fires
Have reach'd and prick'd her heart, and,
throwing flat
The marts and temples, the triumphal
gates
And towers of observation, clears herself
To elemental freedom thus, my soul,
At poetry's divine first finger touch,
Let go conventions and sprang up surpris'd,
Convicted of the great eternities
Before two worlds.
What 's this, Aurora Leigh,
You write so of the poets, and not laugh ?
Those virtuous liars, dreamers after dark,
Exaggerators of the sun and moon,
And soothsayers in a tea-cup?
I write so
Of the only truth-tellers, now left to God,
The only speakers of essential truth,
Oppos'd to relative, comparative,
And temporal truths ; the only holders by
His sun-skirts, through conventional gray
glooms ;
The only teachers who instruct mankind,
From just a shadow on a charnel wall,
To find man's veritable stature out,
Erect, sublime, the measure of a man,
And that 's the measure of an angel, says
The apostle.
THE FERMENT OF NEW WINE
And so, like most young poets, in a flush
Of individual life, I pour'd myself
Along the veins of others, and achiev'd
Mere lifeless imitations of live verse,
And made the living answer for the dead,
Profaning nature. " Touch not, do not taste,
Nor handle," we're too legal, who write
young :
We beat the phorminx till we hurt our
thumbs,
As if still ignorant of counterpoint ;
We call the Muse . . . "O Muse, benignant
Muse!"-
As if we had seen her purple-braided head
With the eyes in it start between the
boughs
As often as a stag's. What make-believe,
With so much earnest ! what effete results,
From virile efforts ! what cold wire-drawn
odes,
From such white heats ! bucolics, where
the cows
Would scare the writer if they splash'd the
mud
In lashing off the flies, didactics, driven
Against the heels of what the master said ;
And counterfeiting epics, shrill with trumps
A babe might blow between two straining
cheeks
Of bubbled rose, to make his mother laugh j
And elegiac griefs, and songs of love,
Like cast-off nosegays pick'd up on the
road,
The worse for being warm : all these things,
writ
On happy mornings, with a morning heart>
That leaps for love, is active for resolve,
Weak for art only. Oft, the ancient forms
Will thrill, indeed, in carrying the young
blood.
The wine-skins, now and then, a little
warp'd,
Will crack even, as the new wine gurgles
in.
Spare the old bottles ! spill not the new
By Keats's soul, the man who never stepp'd
In gradual progress like another man,
But, turning grandly on his central self,
Enspher'd himself in twenty perfect years
And died, not young, (the life of a long
life,
Distill'd to a mere drop, falling like a tear
Upon the world's cold cheek to make it
burn
For ever ;) by that strong excepted soul,
I count it strange, and hard to understand,
That nearly all young poets should write
old ;
That Pope was sexagenarian at sixteen,
And beardless Byron academical,
And so with others. It may be, perhaps,
Such have not settled long and deep enough
In trance, to attain to clairvoyance, and
still
The memory mixes with the vision, spoils,
And works it turbid.
Or perhaps, again
In order to discover the Muse-Sphinx,
The melancholy desert must sweep round,
Behind you, as before.
For me, I wrote
False poems, like the rest, and thought
them true,
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING
myself was true in writing them.
I, perad venture, have writ true ones siuce
With less complacence.
ENGLAND
Whoever lives true life, will love true love.
I learu'd to love that England. Very oft,
Before the day was born, or otherwise
Through secret windings of the afternoons,
I threw my hunters off and plunged myself
Among the deep hills, as a hunted stag
Will take the waters, shivering with the
fear
And passion of the course. And when, at
last
Escap'd, so many a green slope built on
slope
jtwixt me and the enemy's house behind,
dar'd to rest, or wander, like a rest
le sweeter for the step upon the grass,
view the ground's most gentle dimple-
ment,
if God's finger touch'd but did not press
making England !) such an up and down
! verdure, nothing too much up or down,
ripple of land ; such little hills, the sky
Jan stoop to tenderly and the wheatfields
climb ;
Such nooks of valleys, lin'd with orchises,
Fed full of noises by invisible streams ;
And open pastures, where you scarcely tell
White daisies from white dew, at inter
vals
The mythic oaks and elm-trees standingout
Self-pois'd upon their prodigy of shade,
I thought my father's land was worthy too
Of being my Shakespeare's. . . .
. . . Breaking into voluble ecstacy,
I flatter'd all the beauteous country round,
As poets use . . . the skies, the clouds, the
fields,
The happy violets hiding from the roads
The primroses run down to, carrying
gold,
The tangled hedgerows, where the cows
push out
ipatient horns and tolerant churning
mouths
"wixt dripping ash-boughs, hedgerows
all alive
r ith birds and gnats and large white but
terflies
Which look as if the May-flower had sought
life
And palpitated forth upon the wind,
Hills, vales, woods, netted in a silver mist,
Farms, granges, doubled up among the luIU,
And cattle grazing in the water'U vales,
And cottage-chimneys smoking from the
woods,
And cottage-gardens smelling everywhere,
Coiifus'd with smell of orchards. See," I
said,
" And see ! is God not with us on the earth ?
And shall we put Him down by aught we
do ?
Who says there 's nothing for the poor and
vile
Save poverty and wickedness ? behold ! "
And ankle-deep in English grass I leap'd,
And clapp'd my hands, and call'd all very
fair.
"BY SOLITARY FIRES "
O my God, my God,
O supreme Artist, who as sole return
For all the cosmic wonder of Thy work,
Demandest of us just a word ... a name,
"My Father!" thou hast knowledge,
only thou,
How dreary 't is for women to sit still
On winter nights by solitary fires,
And hear the nations praising them far off,
Too far ! ay, praising our quick sense of
love,
Our very heart of passionate womanhood,
Which could not beat so in the verse with
out
Being present also in the unkiss'd lip*,
And eyes undried because there 's none to
ask
The reason they grew moist.
To sit alone,
And think, for comfort, how, that very
night,
Affianced lovers, leaning face to face
With sweet half-listenings for each other's
breath,
Are reading haply from some page of oum,
To pause with a thrill, as if their cheeks
had touch'd,
When such a stanza, level to their mood,
Seems floating their own thoughts out
" So I feel
For thee," " And I, for thee : this poet
knows
What everlasting love is!" how, that
night
1 4 2
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
A father issuing from the misty roads
Upon the luminous round of lamp and
hearth
And happy children, having caught up first
The youngest there until it shrunk and
shriek'd
To feel the cold chin prick its dimple
through
With winter from the hills, may throw i'
the lap
Of the eldest (who has learn'd to drop her
lids
To hide some sweetness newer than last
year's)
Our book and cry, ..." Ah you, you care
for rhymes ;
So here be rhymes to pore on under trees,
When April comes to let you ! I 've been
told
They are not idle as so many are,
But set hearts beating pure as well as
fast:
It 's yours, the book ; I '11 write your name
in it,
That so you may not lose, however lost
In poet's lore and charming reverie,
The thought of how your father thought of
you
In riding from the town."
To have our books
Apprais'd by love, associated with love,
While we sit loveless ! is it hard, you think ?
At least 't is mournful. Fame, indeed, 't was
said,
Means simply love. It was a man said that.
And then there 's love and love : the love
of all
(To risk, in turn, a woman's paradox,)
Is but a small thing to the love of one.
You bid a hungry child be satisfied
With a heritage of many corn-fields : nay,
He says he 's hungry, he would rather
That little barley-cake you keep from him
While reckoning up his harvests. So with
us.
ROMNEY AND AURORA
But oh, the night ! oh, bitter-sweet ! oh,
sweet !
O dark, O moon and stars, O ecstasy
Of darkness ! O great mystery of love,
In which absorb'd, loss, anguish, treason's
self
Enlarges rapture, as a pebble dropp'd
In some full wine-cup, over-brims the wine !
While we two sate together, lean'd that
night
So close, my very garments crept and
thrill'd
With strange electric life ; and both my
cheeks
Grew red, then pale, with touches from my
hair
In which his breath was ; while the golden
moon
Was hung before our faces as the badge
Of some sublime inherited despair,
Since ever to be seen by only one,
A voice said, low and rapid as a sigh,
Yet breaking, I felt conscious, from a
smile,
" Thank God, who made me blind, to make
me see !
Shine on, Aurora, dearest light of souls,
Which rul'st for evermore both day and
night !
I am happy."
I flung closer to his breast,
As sword that, after battle, flings to
sheathe ;
And, in that hurtle of united souls,
The mystic motions, which in common moods
Are shut beyond our sense, broke in on us,
And, as we sate, we felt the old earth spin,
And all the starry turbulence of worlds
Swing round us in their audient circles, till
If that same golden moon were overhead
Or if beneath our feet, we did not know.
THE SLEEP
OF all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this
" He giveth His beloved, sleep " ?
What would we give to our beloved ?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tun 'd harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows ?
He giveth His beloved, sleep.
What do we give to our beloved ?
A little faith all undisproved,
MRS. BROWNING DOMETT
'43
little dust to overweep,
nd bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake :
He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes say
~o have no tune to charm away
dreams that through the eyelids creep:
Jut never doleful dream again
break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved, sleep.
earth, so full of dreary nofses !
men, with wailing in your voices !
delved gold, the wallers heap !
O strife, curse, that o'er it fall !
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved, sleep.
[if dews drop mutely on the hill,
[is cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap :
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His beloved, sleep.
Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirm'd in such a rest to keep ;
But angels say, and through tin* word
I think their happy smile is heard
" He giveth His beloved, sleep."
For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mum mers leapt
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on His love repose
Who giveth His beloved, sleep.
And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall 1
He giveth His beloved, sleep."
3filfre& Domett
A GLEE FOR WINTER
IENCE, rude Winter ! crabbed old fel
low,
Sever merry, never mellow !
RTell-a-day ! in rain and snow
RThat will keep one's heart aglow ?
3roups of kinsmen, old and young,
Dldest they old friends among ;
jroups of friends, so old and true
That they seem our kinsmen too ;
These all merry all together
3harm away chill Winter weather.
What will kill this dull old fellow ?
fAle that's bright, and wine that's mel
low!
'Dear old songs for ever new ;
Some true love, and laughter too ;
Pleasant wit, and harmless fun,
And a dance when day is done.
Music, friends so true and tried,
Whisper'd love by warm fireside,
Mirth at all times all together,
Make sweet May of Winter weather.
A CHRISTMAS HYMN
(OLD STYLE: 1837)
IT was the calm and silent night !
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was Queen of land and sea.
No sound was heard of clashing wars ;
Peace brooded o'er the hush'd domain \
Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars,
Held undisturb'd their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
T was in the calm and silent night I
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home.
Triumphal arches gleaming swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless
sway ;
What reck'd the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago 1
144
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor :
A streak of light before him lay,
Fall'u through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He pass'd for nought
Told what was going on within ;
How keen the stars ! his only thought ;
The air how calm and cold and thin,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago !
O strange indifference ! low and high
Drows'd over common joys and cares :
The earth was still but knew not why ;
The world was listening unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world for
ever !
To that still moment none would heed,
Man's doom was link'd, 110 more to
sever,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
It is the calm and solemn night !
A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness, charm'd and holy now.
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given ;
For in that stable lay new-born
The peaceful Prince of Earth and Hea
ven,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
FROM "A CHRISTMAS HYMN'
(NEW STYLE : 1875)
To murder one so young !
To still that wonder-teeming tongue
Ere half the fulness of its mellow'd glory
Had flash'd in mild sheet-lightnings forth!
Who knows, had that majestic Life grown
hoary,
Long vers'd in all man's weakness, woes
and worth,
What beams had pierced the clouds that
veil thi voyage of care !
Not Zeus, nor Baal's throne,
Nor Osiris alone,
But Doubt, or worse assurance of Despair,
Or Superstition's brood that blends the tiger
with the hare.
Who knows but we had caught
Some hint from pure impassion'd
Thought,
How Matter's links and Spirit's, that still
fly us,
Can break and still leave Spirit free ;
How Will can act o'ermaster'd by no bias ;
Why Good omnipotent lets Evil be ;
What balm heals beauteous Nature's uni
versal flaw ;
And how, below, above,
It is Love, and only Love
Bids keen Sensation glut Destruction's
maw
Love rolls this groaning Sea of Life on
pitiless rocks of Law !
H&ttltam
GLENKINDIE
ABOUT Glenkindie and his man
A false ballant hath long been writ ;
Some bootless loon had written it,
Upon a bootless plan :
But I have found the true at last,
And here it is, so hold it fast !
'T was made by a kind damosel
Who lov'd him and his man right well.
Glenkindie, best of harpers, came
Unbidden to our town ;
And he was sad, and sad to see,
For love had worn him down.
cott
It was love, as all men know,
The love that brought him down,
The hopeless love for the King's daugh
ter,
The dove that heir'd a crown.
Now he wore not that collar of gold,
His dress was forest green ;
His wondrous fair and rich mantel
Had lost its silvery sheen.
But still by his side walk'd Rafe, his boy,
In goodly cramoisie :
Of all the boys that ever I saw
The goodliest boy was he.
WILLIAM BELL SCOTT
'45
Rafe the page ! O Rafe the page !
Ye stole the heart f rae me :
Rafe the page ! O Rafe the page !
I wonder where ye be :
We ne'er may see Glenkindie more,
But may we never see thee ?
Glenkindie came within the hall ;
We set him on the dais,
id gave him bread, and gave him wine,
The best in all the place.
set for him the guests' high chair,
And spread the naperie :
ir Dame herself would serve for him,
And I for Rafe, perdie !
But down he sat on a low low stool,
And thrust his long legs out,
And lean'd his back to the high chair,
And turn'd his harp about.
turn'd it round, he strok'd the strings,
He touch'd each tirling-pin,
He put his mouth to the sounding-board
Aiid breath'd his breath therein.
And Rafe sat over against his face,
And look'd at him wistfullie :
1 almost grat ere he began,
They were so sad to see.
The very first stroke he strack that day,
We all came crowding near ;
id the second stroke he strack that day,
We all were smit with fear.
The third stroke that he strack that day,
Full fain we were to cry ;
The fourth stroke that he strack that day,
We thought that we would die.
To tongue can tell how sweet it was,
How far, and yet how near :
We saw the saints in Paradise,
And bairnies on their bier.
And our sweet Dame saw her good
lord
She told me privilie :
She saw him as she saw him last,
On his ship upon the sea.
Anon he laid his little harp by,
He shut his wondrous eyes ;
We stood a long time like dumb things,
Stood in a dumb surprise.
Then all at once we left that trance,
And shouted where we stood ;
We clasp'd each other's hands and vow'd
We would be wise and good.
Soon he rose up and Rafe rose too,
He drank wine and broke bread ;
He clasp'd hands with our trembling Dame,
But never a word he said ;
They went, Alack and lack-a-day !
They went the way they came.
I follow'd them all down the floor,
And O but I had drouth
To touch his cheek, to touch his hand,
To kiss Rafe's velvet mouth !
But I knew such was not for me.
They went straight from the door ;
We saw them fade within the mist,
And never saw them more.
YOUTH AND AGE
OUR night repast was ended : quietness
Return'd again : the boys were in their
books ;
The old man slept, and by him slept his dog :
My thoughts were in the dream-land of to
morrow :
A knock is heard; anon the maid brings
in
A black-seaPd letter that some over-work'd
Late messenger leaves. Each one looks
round and scans,
But lifts it not, and I at last am told
To read it. '* Died here at his house this
day"-
Some well-known name not needful here
to print,
Follows at length. Soon all return again
To their first stillness, but the old man
coughs,
And cries, "Ah, he was always like the
grave,
And still he was but young ! " while those
who stand
On life's green threshold smile within them
selves,
Thinking how very old he was to them,
And what long years, what memorable
deeds,
146
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Are theirs in prospect ! Little care have
they
What old man dies, what child is born, in
deed ;
Their day is coming, and their sun shall
shine 1
PYGMALION
J * MISTRESS of gods and men ! I have been
thine
From boy to man, and many a myrtle rod
Have I made grow upon thy sacred sod,
Nor ever have I pass'd thy white shafts nine
Without some votive offering for the shrine,
Carv'd beryl or chas'd bloodstone ; aid
me now,
And I will live to fashion for thy brow
Heart-breaking priceless things : oh, make
her mine."
Venus inclin'd her ear, and through the
Stone
Forthwith slid warmth like spring through
sapling-stems,
And lo, the eyelid stirr'd, beneath had
grown
The tremulous light of life, and all the hems
Of her zon'd peplos shook. Upon his breast
She sank, by two dread gifts at once op-
press'd.
MY MOTHER
THERE was a gather'd stillness in the room :
Only the breathing of the great sea rose
From far off, aiding that profound repose,
With regular pulse and pause within the
gloom
Of twilight, as if some impending doom
Was now approaching ; I sat moveless
there.
Watching with tears and thoughts that were
like prayer,
Till the hour struck, the thread dropp'd
from the loom ;
And the Bark pass'd in which freed souls
are borne.
The dear stilPd face lay there ; that sound
forlorn
Continued ; I rose not, but long sat by :
And now my heart oft hears that sad sea
shore,
When she is in the far-off land, and I
Wait the dark sail returning yet once more.
THE NORNS WATERING
YGGDRASILL
(FOR A PICTURE)
WITHIN the unchanging twilight
Of the high land of the gods,
Between the murmuring fountain
And the Ash-tree, tree of trees,
The Norns, the terrible maidens,
For evermore come and go,
Yggdrasill the populous Ash-tree,
Whose leaves embroider heaven,
Fills all the gray air with music
To Gods and to men sweet sounds,
But speech to the fine-ear'd maidens
Who evermore come and go.
That way to their doomstead thrones
The Aesir ride each day,
And every one bends to the saddle
As they pass beneath the shade ;
Even Odin, the strong All-father,
Bends to the beautiful maidens
Who cease not to come and go.
The tempest crosses the high boughs,
The great snakes heave below,
The wolf, the boar, and antler'd harts
Delve at the life-giving roots,
But all of them fear the wise maidens,
The wise-hearted water-bearers
Who evermore come and go.
And men far away, in the night-hours
To the north- wind listening, hear ;
They hear the howl of the were-wolf,
And know he hath felt the sting
Of the eyes of the potent maidens
Who sleeplessly come and go.
They hear on the wings of the north-wind
A sound as of three that sing ;
And the skald, in the blae mist wandering
High on the midland fell,
Heard the very words of the o'ersong
Of the Norns who come and go.
But alas for the ears of mortals
Chance-hearing that fate-laden song !
The bones of the skald lie there still :
For the speech of the leaves of the Tree
Is the song of the three Queen-maidens
Who evermore come and go.
SCOTT LINTON
'47
TO THE DEAD
(A PARAPHRASE)
GONE art thou ? gone, and is the light of
day
Still shining, is my hair not touch'd with
gray ?
But evening draweth nigh, I pass the door,
And see thee walking on the dim-lit shore.
Gone, art thou? gone, and weary on the
brink
Of Lethe waiting there. O do not drink,
Drink not, forget not, wait a little while,
I shall he with thee ; we again may smile.
HERO-WORSHIP
How would the centuries long asunder
Look on their sires with angry wonder,
Could some strong necromantic power
Revive them for one spectral hour i
Bondsmen of the past are we,
Predestin'd bondsmen : could we see
The dead now deified, again
Peering among environing men,
We might be free.
Slintou
EVICTION i
LONG years their cabin stood
Out on the moor ;
More than one sorrow-brood
Pass'd through their door ;
Ruin them over-cast,
Worse than one wintry blast ;
Famine's plague follow'd fast :
God help the poor !
There on that heap of fern,
Gasping for breath,
Lieth the wretched ke'rn,
Waiting for death :
Famine had brought him low ;
Fever had caught him so,
O thou sharp-grinding woe,
Outwear thy sheath !
Dying, or living here
Which is the worse ?
Misery's heavy tear,
Back to thy source !
Who dares to lift her head
Up from the scarcely dead ?
Who pulls the crazy shed
Down on the corse ?
What though some rent was due,
Hast thou no grace ?
So may God pardon you,
Shame of your race !
What though that home may be
Wretched and foul to see,
What if God harry thee
Forth from His face ?
Widow 'd and orphan'd ones,
Flung from your rest !
Where will you lay your bones ?
Bad was your best.
Out on the dreary road,
Where shall be their abode ?
One of them sleeps with God :
Where are the rest ?
PATIENCE 1
BE patient, O be patient ! Put your ear
against the earth ;
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o* the
seed has birth ;
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its
little way
Till it parts the scarcely-broken ground,
and the blade stands up in the day.
Be patient, O be patient ! the germs of
mighty thought
Must have their silent undergrowth, must
underground be wrought ;
But, as sure as ever there 's a Power that
makes the grass appear,
Our land shall be green with Liberty, the
blade-time shall be here.
1 From his early Poem* of Freedom.
148
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
Be patient, O be patient ! go and watch the
wheat-ears grow,
So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor
change nor throe :
Day after day, day after day till the ear is
fully grown ;
And then again day after day, till the
ripen'd field is brown.
Be patient, O be patient ! though yet our
hopes are green,
The harvest-field of Freedom shall be
crown 'd with the sunny sheen.
Be ripening, be ripening ! mature your
silent way
Till the whole broad land is tongued with
fire on Freedom's harvest day.
OUR CAUSE 1
So, Freedom, thy great quarrel may we
serve,
With truest zeal that, sensitive of blame,
Ever thy holy banner would preserve
As pure as woman's love or knightly fame.
And though detraction's flood we proudly
breast,
Or, weakening, sink in that unfathonvd sea,
Ever we '11 keep aloft our banner, lest
Even the black spray soil its purity.
My life be branded and my name be flung
To infamy ; beloved, I will wear
Thy beauty on my shield, till even the
tongue
Of falsehood echo truth, and own thee fair.
HEART AND WILL 1
OUR England's heart is sound as oak ;
Our English will is firm ;
And through our actions Freedom spoke
In history's proudest term :
When Blake was lord from shore to shore,
And Cromwell rul'd the land,
And Milton's words were shields of power
To stay the oppressor's hand.
Our England's heart is yet as sound,
As firm our English will ;
And tyrants, be they cowl'd or crown'd,
Shall find us fearless still.
And though our Vane be in his tomb,
Though Hampden's blood is cold,
1 From his early
Their spirits live to lead our doom
As in the days of old.
Our England's heart is stout as oak ;
Our English will as brave
As when indignant Freedom spoke
From Eliot's prison grave.
And closing yet again with Wrong,
A world in arms shall see
Our England foremost of the strong
And first among the free.
FROM "A THRENODY: IN
MEMORY OF ALBERT DARASZ "
O BLESSED Dead ! beyond all earthly pains:
Beyond the calculation of low needs ;
Thy growth no longer chok'd by earthly
weeds ;
Thy spirit clear'd from care's corrosive
chains.
O blessed Dead ! O blessed Life-in-death,
Transcending all life's poor decease of
breath !
Thou walkest not upon some desolate moor
In the storm-wilderhig midnight, when
thine own,
Thy trusted friend, hath lagg'd and left
thee lone.
He knows not poverty who, being poor,
Hath still one friend. But he who fain
had kept
The comrade whom his zeal hath over-
stept.
Thou sufferest not the friendly cavilling
Impugning motive ; nor that worse than
spear
Of f oeman, biting doubt of one most
dear
Laid in thy deepest heart, a barbed sting
Never to be withdrawn. For we were
friends :
Alas ! and neither to the other bends.
Thou hast escap'd continual falling off
Of old companions ; and that aching void
Of the proud heart which has been over-
buoy'd
With friendship's idle breath ; and now the
scoff
Of failure even as idly passeth by
Thy poor remains : Thou soaring
through the sky.
Poems of Freedom.
WILLIAM JAMES LINTON
149
Knowing no more that malady of hope
The sickness of deferral, thou canst
look
Thorough the heavens and, healthily pa
tient, brook
Delay, defeat. For in thy vision's scope
Most distant cometh. We might see it
too,
But dizzying faintness overveils our
view.
And when disaster flings us in the dust,
Or when we wearily drop on the highway-
side,
Or when in prison'd, exil'd depths the
pride
Of suffering bows its head, as oft it must,
We cannot, looking on thy wasted corse,
Perceive the future. Lend us of thy
force !
LOVE AND YOUTH
Two winged genii in the air
I greeted as they pass'd me by :
The one a bow and quiver bare,
The other shouted joyously.
Both I besought to stay their speed,
But never Love nor Youth had heed
Of my wild cry.
As swift and careless as the wind,
Youth fled, nor ever once look'd back ;
A moment Love was left behind,
But follow'd soon his fellow's track.
Yet loitering at my heart he bent
His bow, then smil'd with changed intent :
The string was slack.
TOO LATE
I YES ! thou art fair, and I had lov'd
If we in earlier hours had met ;
But ere tow'rd me thy beauty mov'd
The sun of Love's brief day had set.
[ Though I may watch thy opening bloom,
And its rich promise gladly see,
T will not procrastinate my doom :
The ripen'd fruit is not for me.
i '
Yet, had I shar'd thy course of years, .
And young as Hope beheld thy charms,
The love that only now endears
Perchance had given thee to my arms.
Vain, vain regret ! Another day
Will kiss the buds of younger flowers,
But ne'er will evening turn away
From love untimelier than ours.
WEEP NOT! SIGH NOT!
WEEP not ! tears must vainly fall,
Though they fall like ra
Sorrow's flood shall not recall
Love 's dear life again.
Vain thy tears,
Vain thy sobs ;
As vain heart-throbs
Of lonely years
Since thou Love hast slain.
Sigh not ! As a passed wind
Is but sought in vain,
Sighs nor groans may not unbind
Death's unbroken chain.
Sighs and tears
Nought avail,
Nor cheeks grown pale
In lonely years.
Love comes not again.
SPRING AND AUTUMN
"THOU wilt forget me." "Love has no
such word."
The soft Spring wind is whispering to the
trees.
Among lime-blossoms have the hovering
bees
Those whispers heard ?
" Or thou wilt change." Love changeth
not," he said.
The purple heather cloys the air with
scent
Of honey. O'er the moors her lover went,
Nor turn'd his head.
LOVE'S BLINDNESS
THEY call her fair. I do not know :
I never thought to look.
Who heeds the binder's costliest show
When be may read the book ?
What need a list of parts to me
When I possess the whole ?
Who only watch her eyes to see
The color of her soul.
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
I may not praise her mouth, her chin,
Her feet, her hands, her arms :
My love lacks leisure to begin
The schedule of her charms.
To praise is only to compare :
And therefore Love is blind.
I lov'd before I was aware
Her beauty was of kind.
THE SILENCED SINGER
THE nest is built, the song hath ceas'd :
The minstrel joineth in the feast,
So singeth not. The poet's verse,
Crippled by Hymen's household curse,
Follows no more its hungry quest.
Well if Love's feathers line the nest.
Yet blame not that beside the fire
Love hangeth up his unstrung lyre !
How sing of hope when Hope hath fled,
Joy whispering lip to lip instead ?
Or how repeat the tuneful moan
When the Obdurate 's all my own ?
Love, like the lark, while soaring sings :
Wouldst have him spread again his wings ?
What careth he for higher skies
Who on the heart of harvest lies,
And finds both sun and firmament
Clos'd in the round of his content ?
EPICUREAN
IN Childhood's unsuspicious hours
The fairies crown'd my head with flowers.
Youth came : I lay at Beauty's feet ;
She smil'd and said my song was sweet.
Then Age, and, Love no longer mine,
My brows I shaded with the vine.
With flowers and love and wine and song,
O Death ! life hath not been too long.
Utofccrt
WE'LL A' GO PU' THE HEATHER
WE 'LL a' go pu the heather,
\ Our byres are a' to theek :
Unless the peat-stack get a hap,
We '11 a' be smoor'd wi' reek.
Wi' rantin' sang awa' we '11 gang,
While summer skies are blue,
To fend against the winter cauld
The heather we will pu'.
I like to pu' the heather,
We 're aye sae mirthf u' where
The* sunshine creeps atour the crags,
Like ravell'd golden hair.
Where on the hill-tap we can stand
Wi' joyfu' heart I trow,
And mark ilk grassy bank and holm,
As we the heather pu'.
I like to pu' the heather,
Where harmless lambkins run,
Or lay them down beside the burn
Like gowans in the sun ;
Where ilka foot can tread upon
The heath-flower wet wi' dew,
When comes the starnie ower the hill,
While we the heather pu\
I like to pu' the heather,
For ane can gang awa',
But no before a glint o' love
On some ane's e'e doth fa'.
Sweet words we dare to whisper there,
" My hinny and my doo,"
Till maistly we wi' joy could greet
As we the heather pu'.
We '11 a' go pu' the heather,
For at yon mountain fit
There stands a broom bush by a burn,
Where twa young folk can sit :
He meets me there at morning's rise,
My beautiful and true.
My father said the word the morn
The heather we will pu'.
BONNIE BESSIE LEE
BONNIE Bessie Lee had a face fu* o'
smiles,
And mirth round her ripe lip was aye
dancing slee ;
And light was the footfa', and winsome the
wiles,
0' the flower o' the parochin our aiii
Bessie Lee.
ROBERT NICOLL
Wi' the bairns she would rin, and the school
laddies paik,
And o'er the broomy braes like a fairy
would flee,
Till auld hearts grew young again wi' love
for her sake :
There was life in the blithe blink o'
Bonnie Bessie Lee.
She grat wi' the waefu', and laugh'd wi'
the glad,
And light as the wind 'mang the dancers
was she ;
a tongue that could jeer, too, the little
limmer had,
Whilk keepit aye her ain side for Bonnie
Bessie Lee.
she whiles had a sweetheart, and some
times had twa
A limmer o' a lassie ! but, atween you
and me,
jr warm wee bit heartie she ne'er threw
awa',
Though mony a ane had sought it frae
Bonnie Bessie Lee.
hit ten years had gane since I gaz'd on
her last,
\ For ten years had parted my auld hame
and me ;
And I said to myseP, as her mither's door
I past,
I " Will I ever get anither kiss frae Bon
nie Bessie Lee ? "
But Time changes a' thing the ill-natur'd
loon !
Were it ever sae rightly he '11 no let it
be ;
Jut I rubbit at my een, and I thought I
would swoon,
How the carle had come roun* about our
ain Bessie Lee !
The wee laughing lassie was a gudewife
grown auld,
|i Twa weans at her apron and ane on her
knee ;
She was douce, too, and wiselike and
wisdom 's sae cauld :
I would rather ha'e the ither ane than
this Bessie Lee I
THE HERO
MY hero is na deck'd wi' gowd,
He has nae glittering state ;
Renown upon a field o blood
In war he hasna met.
He has nae siller in his pouch,
Nae menials at his ca' ;
The proud o' earth frae him would turn,
And bid him stand awa'.
His coat is hame-spun hodden-gray,
His shoon are clouted sair,
His garments, maist unhero-like,
Are a' the waur o' wear :
His limbs are strong his shoulders broad,
His hands were made to plough ;
He 's rough without, but sound within ;
His heart is bauldly true.
He toils at e'en, he toils at morn,
His wark is never through ;
A coming life o' weary toil
Is ever in his view.
But on he trudges, keeping aye
A stout heart to the brae,
And proud to be an honest man
Until his dying day.
His hame a hame o' happiness
And kindly love may be ;
And monie a nameless dwelling-place
Like his we still may see.
His happy altar-hearth so bright
Is ever bleezing there ;
And cheerfu' faces round it set
Are an unending prayer.
The poor man in his humble hame,
Like God, who dwells aboon,
Makes happy hearts around him there,
Sae joyfu' late and soon.
His toil is sair, his toil is lang ;
But weary nights and days,
Hame happiness akin to his
A hunder-fauld repays.
Go, mock at conquerors and kings f
What happiness give they ?
Go, tell the painted butterflies
To kneel them down and pray !
Go, stand erect in manhood's pride,
Be what a man should be,
Then come, and to my hero bend
Upon the grass your knee !
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
a?arft Wilkg Call
THE PEOPLE'S PETITION
LORDS ! O rulers of the nation !
O softly cloth'd ! O richly fed !
O men of wealth and noble station 1
Give us our daily bread.
For you we are content to toil,
For you our blood like rain is shed ;
Then, lords and rulers of the soil,
Give us our daily bread.
Tour silken robes, with endless care,
Still weave we ; still uncloth'd, unfed,
We make the raiment that ye wear :
Give us our daily bread.
In the red forge-light do we stand,
We early leave late seek our bed,
Tempering the steel for your right hand :
Give us our daily bread.
We sow your fields, ye reap the fruit ;
We live in misery and in dread ;
Hear but our prayer, and we are mute :
Give us our daily bread.
Throughout old England's pleasant fields
There is no spot where we may tread,
No house to us sweet shelter yields :
Give us our daily bread.
Fathers are we ; we see our sons,
We see our fair young daughters, dead ;
Then hear us, O ye mighty ones !
Give us our daily bread.
'T is vain with cold, unfeeling eye
Ye gaze on us, uncloth'd, unfed ;
'T is vain ye will not hear our cry,
Nor give us daily bread.
We turn from you, our lords by birth,
To him who is our Lord above ;
We all are made of the same earth,
Are children of one love.
Then, Father of this world of wonders,
Judge of the living and the dead,
Lord of the lightnings and the thunders,
Give us our daily bread I
SUMMER DAYS
IN summer, when the days were long,
We walk'd, two friends, in field and
wood ;
Our heart was light, our step was strong,
And life lay round us, fair as good,
In summer, when the days were long.
We stray'd from morn till evening came,
We gather'd flowers, and wove us crowns ;
We walk'd mid poppies red as flame,
Or sat upon the yellow downs,
And always wish'd our life the same.
In summer, when the days were long,
We leap'd the hedgerow, cross'd the brook ;
And still her voice flow'd forth in song,
Or else she read some graceful book,
In summer, when the days were long.
And then we sat beneath the trees,
With shadows lessening in the noon ;
And in the sunlight and the breeze
We revell'd, many a glorious June,
While larks were singing o'er the leas.
In summer, when the days were long,
We pluck'd wild strawberries, ripe and
red,
Or feasted, with no grace but song,
On golden nectar, snow-white bread,
In summer, when the days were long.
We lov'd, and yet we knew it not,
For loving seem'd like breathing then ;
We found a heaven in every spot ;
Saw angels, too, in all good men,
And dream'd of gods in grove and grot
In summer, when the days are long,
Alone I wander, muse alone ;
I see her not, but that old song
Under the fragrant wind is blown,
In summer, when the days are long.
Alone I wander in the wood,
But one fair spirit hears my sighs ;
And half I see the crimson hood,
The radiant hair, the calm glad eyes,
That charm'd me in life's summer mood
WELDON EMILY BRONTE
'53
In summer, when the days are long,
I love her as I lov'd of old ;
My heart is light, my step is strong,
For love brings back those hours of
gold,
In summer, when the days are long.
Cf)arle KDrtoon
THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE
THE Poem of the Universe
Nor rhythm lias nor rhyme ;
Some God recites the wondrous song
A stanza at a time.
Great deeds is he foredoom'd to do,
With Freedom's flag uiifurl'd,
Who hears the echo of that song
As it goes down the world.
Great words he is compell'd to speak
Who understands the song ;
He rises up like fifty men,
Fifty good men and strong.
A stanza for each century :
Now heed it, all who can 1
Who hears it, he, and only he,
Is the elected man.
SONG
THE linnet in the rocky dells,
The moor-lark in the air,
The bee among the heather bells
That hide my lady fair.
wild deer browse above her breast ;
The wild birds raise their brood ;
Lnd they, her smiles of love caress'd,
Have left her solitude.
I ween that, when the grave's dark wall
Did first her form retain,
They thought their hearts could ne'er recall
The light of joy again.
They thought the tide of grief would flow
Uncheck'd through future years ;
But where is all their anguish now,
And where are all their tears ?
Well, let them fight for honor's breath,
Or pleasure's shade pursue :
The dweller in the land of death
Is changed and careless too.
And, if their eyes should watch and weep
Till sorrow's source were dry,
would not, in her tranquil sleep,
Return a single sigh.
25ronte
Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound,
And murmur, summer streams t
There is no need of other sound
To soothe my lady's dreams.
THE OLD STOIC
RICHES I hold in light esteem,
And Love I laugh to scorn ;
And lust of fame was but a dream
That vanish'd with the morn ;
And if I pray, the only prayer
That moves my lips for me
Is, " Leave the heart that now I bear,
And give me liberty ! "
Yes, as my swift days near their goal,
'T is all that I implore :
In life and death a chainless soul,
With courage to endure.
WARNING AND REPLY
IN the earth the earth thou shalt be iaid
A gray stone standing over thee ;
Black mould beneath thee spread,
And black mould to cover thee.
" Well there is rest there,
So fast come thy prophecy
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
The time when my sunny hair
Shall with grass roots entwined be."
But cold cold is that resting-place,
Shut out from joy and liberty,
And all who lov'd thy living face
Will shrink from it shudderingly.
" Not so. Here the world is chill,
And sworn friends fall from me ;
But there they will own me still,
And prize my memory."
Farewell, then, all that love,
All that deep sympathy :
Sleep on : Heaven laughs above,
Earth never misses thee.
Turf-sod and tombstone drear
Part human company ;
One heart breaks only here,
But that heart was worthy thee I
STANZAS
OFTEN rebuk'd, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with
me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and
learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot
be;
To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region ;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear ;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.
1 11 walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguish'd faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
1 11 walk where my own nature would be
leading :
It vexes me to choose another guide :
Where the gray flocks in ferny glens are
feeding ;
Where the wild wind blows on the moun
tain side.
What have those lonely mountains worth
revealing ?
More glory and more grief than I can
tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to
feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven
and Hell.
HER LAST LINES
No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled
sphere :
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from
fear.
O God within my breast,
Almighty, ever-present Deity !
Life that in me has rest,
As I undying Life have power in thee !
Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ;
Worthless as wither'd weeds,
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main,
To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thine infinity ;
So surely anchor'd on
The steadfast rock of immortality.
With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years,
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and
rears.
Though earth and man were gone,
And suns and universes ceas'd to be,
And Thou were left alone,
Every existence would exist in Thee.
There is not room for Death,
Nor atom that his might could render
void :
Thou Thou art Being and Breath,
And what Thou art may never be de-
stroy'd.
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
'55
3Htm
(Slctocg)
("GEORGE ELIOT")
O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR IN
VISIBLE"
Longum illud.teinpus, quum non ero, magis me movet,
juu hoc exiguum. Cicero, ad A:t , xii. 18.
MAY I join the choir invisible
those immortal dead who live again
minds made better by their presence :
live
In pulses stirr'd to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night
like stars,
with their mild persistence urge man's
search
Co vaster issues.
So to live is heaven :
To make undying music in the world,
jathing as beauteous order that controls
r ith growing sway the growing life of
man.
ffio we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, fail'd, and ago-
niz'd
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child,
Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolv'd ;
Its discords, quench'd by meeting har
monies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer self,
That sobb'd religiously in yearning song,
That watch'd to ease the burthen of the
world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better, saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shap'd it forth before the multitude,
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mix'd with
love,
That better self shall live till human
Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gather'd like a scroll within the tomb
Unread forever.
This is life to come,
Which martyr'd men have made more
glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other soul*
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty,
Be the sweet presence of a good diffus'd,
And in diffusion ever more intense !
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.
SONGS FROM "THE SPANISH
GYPSY "
THE DARK
SHOULD I long that dark were fair ?
Say, O song,
Lacks my love aught, that I should long ?
Dark the night, with breath all flow'rs,
And tender broken voice that fills
With ravishment the listening hours :
Whisperings, wooings,
Liquid ripples and soft ring-dove cooings
In low-ton'd rhythm that love's aching
stills.
Dark the night,
Yet is she bright,
For in her dark she brings the mystic star,
Trembling yet strong, as is the voice of love,
From some unknown afar.
O radiant Dark ! O darkly-fostered ray !
Thou hast a joy too deep for shallow Dty.
SONG OF THE zfNCALI
ALL things journey : sun and moon,
Morning, noon, and afternoon,
Night and all her stars :
Twixt the east and western bars
Round they journey,
Come and go.
We go with them !
For to roam and ever roam
Is the Zmcali's loved home.
Earth is good, the hillside breaks
By the ashen roots and wakes
Hungry nostrils glad ;
Then we run till we are mad,
lake the horses,
156
POETS OF THE NEW DAY
And we cry,
None shall catch us !
Swift winds wing us we are free
Drink the air we Zfncali 1
Falls the snow : the pine-branch split,
Call the fire out, see it flit,
Through the dry leaves run,
Spread and glow, and make a sun
In the dark tent :
O warm dark !
Warm as conies !
Strong fire loves us, we are warm !
Who the Zfncali shall harm ?
Onward journey : fires are spent ;
Sunward, sunward ! lift the tent,
Run before the rain,
Through the pass, along the plain.
Hurry, hurry,
Lift us, wind !
Like the horses.
For to roam and ever roam
Is the Zfncali's loved home.
EARTH'S BURDENS
WHY grpaning so, thou solid earth,
Though sprightly summer cheers ?
Or is thine old heart dead to mirth ?
Or art thou bow'd by years ?
" Nor am I cold to summer's prime,
Nor knows my heart decay ;
Nor am I bow'd by countless time,
Thou atom of a day !
" I lov'd to list when tree and tide
Their gentle music made,
And lightly on my sunny side
To feel the plough and spade.
" I lov'd to hold my liquid way
Through floods of living light ;
To kiss the sun's bright hand by day,
And count the stars by night.
** I lov'd to hear the children's glee,
Around the cottage door,
And peasant's song right merrily
The glebe come ringing o'er.
" But man upon my back has roll'd
Such heavy loads of stone,
I scarce can grow the harvest gold :
'Tis therefore that I groan.
" And when the evening dew sinks mild
Upon my quiet breast,
I feel the tear of the houseless child
Break burning on my rest.
" Oh ! where are all the hallow'd sweets,
The harmless joys I gave ?
The pavement of your sordid streets
Are stones on Virtue's grave.
" And thick and fast as autumn leaves
My children drop away,
A gathering of unripen'd sheaves
By premature decay.
" Gaunt misery holds the cottage door,
And olden honor 's flown,
And slaves are slavish more and more :
'T is therefore that I groan."
THE WRECK
ITS masts of might, its sails so free,
Had borne the scatheless keel
Through many a day of darken'd sea,
And many a storm of steel $
When all the winds were calm, it met
(With home-returning prore)
With the lull
Of the waves
On a low lee shore.
RUSKIN JONES
'57
The crest of the conqueror
On many a brow was bright ;
The dew of many an exile's eye
Had dimm'd the dancing sight ;
And for love and for victory
One welcome was in store.
In the lull
Of the waves
On a low lee shore.
The voices ofjthe night are mute
Beneath the moon's eclipse ;
The silence of the fitful flute
Is on the dying lips.
The silence of my lonely heart
Is kept forevermore
In the lull
Of the waves
On a low lee shore.
TRUST THOU THY LOVE
TRUST thou thy Love : if she be proud, is
she not sweet ?
Trust thou thy Love : if she be mute, is
she not pure ?
Lay thou thy soul full in her hands, low at
her feet ;
Fail, Sun and Breath! yet, for thy
peace, she shall endure.
SONG OF THE KINGS OF
GOLD
OURS all are marble halls,
Amid untrodden groves
Where music ever calls,
Where faintest perfume roves ;
And thousands toiling moan,
That gorgeous robes may fold
The haughty forms alone
Of us the Kings of Gold.
(Chorus.)
We cannot count our slaves,
Nothing bounds our sway,
Our will destroys and saves,
We let, we create, we slay.
Ha ! ha ! who are Gods ?
Purple, and crimson, and blue,
Jewels, and silks, and pearl,
All splendors of form and hue,
Our charm'd existence furl ;
When dared shadow dim
The glow in our winecups roll'd ?
When droop'd the banquet-hymn
Rais'd for the Kings of Gold ?
(Chorus.)
The earth, the earth, is ours I
Its corn, its fruits, its wine,
Its sun, its rain, its flowers,
Ours, all, all i cannot shine
One sunlight ray, but where
Our mighty titles hold ;
Wherever life is, there
Possess the Kings of Gold.
(Chorus.)
And all on earth that lives,
Woman, and man, and child,
Us trembling homage gives ;
Aye trampled, sport-defil'd,
None dareth raise one frown,
Or slightest questioning hold ;
Our scorn but strikes them down
To adore the Kings of Gold.
(Chorus.)
In a glorious sea of hate,
Eternal rocks we stand ;
Our joy is our lonely state,
And our trust, our own right hand ;
We frown, and nations shrink ;
They curse, but our swords are old ;
And the wine of their rage deep drink
The dauntless Kings of Gold.
(Chorus.)
We cannot count our slaves,
Nothing bounds our sway,
Our will destroys and saves,
We let, we create, we slay.
Ha! ha! who are Gods?
158
THE RHAPSODISTS
THE FACE
THESE dreary hours of hopeless gloom
Are all of life I fain would know ;
I would but feel my life consume,
While bring they back mine ancient woe ;
For, midst the clouds of grief and shame
That crowd around, one face I see ;
It is the face I dare not name,
The face none ever name to me.
I saw it first when in the dance
Borne, like a falcon, down the hall,
He stay'd to cure some rude mischance
My girlish deeds had caused to fall ;
He sinil'd, he danced with me, he made
A thousand ways to soothe my pain ;
And sleeplessly all night I pray'd
That I might see that smile again.
I saw it next, a thousand times ;
And every time its kind smile near'd ;
Oh ! twice ten thousand glorious chimes
My heart rang out, when he appear'd ;
What was I then, that others' thought
Could alter so my thought of him;
That I could be by others taught
His image from my heart to dim !
I saw it last, when black and white
Shadows went struggling o'er it wild ;
When he regain'd my long-lost sight,
And I with cold obeisance smil'd ;
I did not see it fade from life ;
My letters o'er his heart they found ;
They told me in death's last hard strife
His dying hands around them wound.
Although my scorn that face did maim,
Even when its love would not depart ;
Although my laughter smote its shame
And drave it swording through his heart ;
Although its death-gloom grasps my brain
With crushing unrefus'd despair ;
That I may dream that face again
God still must find alone my prayer.
THE RHAPSODISTS
FROM "FESTUS"
YOUTH, LOVE, AND DEATH
Lucifer. And we might trust these youths
and maidens fair,
The world was made for nothing but love,
love.
Now I think it was made most to be burn'd.
Festus. The night is glooming on us.
It is the hour
When lovers will speak lowly, for the sake
Of being nigh each other ; and when love
Shoots up the eye, like morning on the east,
Making amends for the long northern night
They pass'd, ere either knew the other
lov'd ;
The hour of hearts ! Say gray-beards what
they please,
The heart of age is like an emptied wine-
cup ;
Its life lies in a heel-tap : how can age
judge ?
'T were a waste of time to ask how they
wasted theirs ;
But while the blood is bright, breath sweet,
skin smooth,
And limbs all made to minister delight ;
Ere yet we have shed our locks, like trees 1
their leaves,
And we stand staring bare into the air ;
He is a fool who is not for love and beauty
It is I, the young, to the young speak. I
am of them,
And always shall be. What are years to
me ?
You traitor years, that fang the hands ye
have lick'd,
Vicelike ; henceforth your venom-sacs art
gone.
I have conquer'd. Ye shall perish : yea,
shall fall
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
'59
Like birdlets beaten by some resistless
storm
'Gainst a dead wall, dead. I pity ye, that
such
Mean things should have rais'd in man or
hope or fear ;
Those Titans of the heart that fight at
heaven,
And sleep, by fits, on fire, whose slightest
stir's
An earthquake. I am bound and bless'd
to youth.
None but the brave and beautiful can love.
Oh give me to the young, the fair, the
free,
The brave, who would breast a rushing,
burning world
Which came between him and his heart's
delight.
Mad must I be, and what 's the world ?
Like mad
For itself. And I to myself am all things,
too.
If my heart thunder'd would the world
rock? Well,
Then let the mad world fight its shadow
down.
Soon there may be nor sun nor world nor
shadow.
But thou, my blood, my bright red running
soul,
Rejoice thou like a river in thy rapids.
Rejoice, thou wilt never pale with age, nor
thin ;
But in thy full dark beauty, vein by vein
Serpent-wise, me encircling, shalt to the end
Throb, bubble, sparkle, laugh, and leap'
along.
Make merry, heart, while the holidays shall
last.
Better than daily dwine, break sharp with
life ;
Like a stag, suustruck, top thy bounds and
die.
Heart, I could tear thee out, thou fool, thou
fool,
And strip thee into shreds upon the wind.
What have I done that thou shouldst maze
me thus ?
Lucifer. Let us away ; we have had
enough of hearts.
Festm. Oh for the young heart like a
fountain playing,
linging its bright fresh feelings up to the
skies
It loves and strives to reach ; strives, lores
in vain.
It is of earth, and never meant for IIIUPS^
Let us love both and die. Tin- .sphinx-like
heart
Loathes life the moment that life's riddle
is read.
The knot of our existence solv'd, all thing*
Loose-ended lie, and useless. Life is had,
And lo ! we sigh, and say, can this be all ?
It is not what we thought ; it is very well,
But we want something more. There is
but death.
And when we have said and seen, done, had,
enjoy'd
And suffer'd, maybe, all we have wish'd or
fear'd,
From fame to ruin, and from love to loath-
ing.
There can come but one more change
try it death.
Oh t it is great to feel that nought of earth,
Hope, love, nor dread, nor care for what 's
to come,
Can check the royal lavishment of life ;
But, like a streamer strown upon the wind,
We fling our souls to fate and to the future.
For to die young is youth's divinest gift ;
To pass from one world fresh into another,
Ere change hath lost the charm of soft
regret,
And feel the immortal impulse from within
Which makes the coming life cry alway,
on I
And follow it while strong, is heaven's last
mercy.
There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines
When on the wing. So is't with mind.
When once
We rest, we darken. On ! saith God to the
soul,
As unto the earth for ever. On it goes,
A rejoicing native of the infinite,
As is a bird, of air ; an orb, of heaven.
THE POET
Festus. Thanks, thanks! With the
Muse is always love and light,
And self-sworn loyalty to truth. For know,
Poets are all who love, who feel, great
truths,
And tell them : and the truth of truths
love.
There was a time oh, I remember well I
i6o
THE RHAPSODISTS
When, like a sea-shell with its sea-born
strain,
My soul aye rang with music of the lyre,
And my heart shed its lore as leaves their
dew
A honey dew, and throve on what it shed.
All things I lov'd ; but song I lov'd in
chief.
Imagination is the air of mind,
Judgment its earth and memory its main,
Passion its fire. I was at home in heaven.
Swiftlike, I liv'd above ; once touching
earth,
The meanest thing might master me : long
wings
But baffled. Still and still I harp'd on
song.
Oh ! to create within the mind is bliss,
And shaping forth the lofty thought, or
lovely,
We seek not, need not heaven : and when
the thought,
Cloudy and shapeless, first forms on the
mind,
Slow darkening into some gigantic make,
How the heart shakes with pride and fear,
as heaven
Quakes under its own thunder ; or as
might,
Of old, the mortal mother of a god,
When first she saw him lessening up the
skies.
And I began the toil divine of verse,
Which, like a burning bush, doth guest a
god.
But this was only wing-flapping not
flight ;
The pawing of the courser ere he win ;
Till by degrees, from wrestling with my
soul,
I gather'd strength to keep the fleet
thoughts fast,
&nd made them bless me. Yes, there was
a time
When tomes of ancient song held eye and
heart ;
Were the sole lore I reck'd of : the great
bards
Of Greece, of Rome, and mine own master
land,
And they who in the holy book are death
less ;
Men who have vulgariz'd sublimity,
And bought up truth for the nations ; held
it whole ;
Men who have forged gods utter'd
made them pass :
Sons of the sons of God, who in olden days
Did leave their passionless heaven for earth
and woman,
Brought an immortal to a mortal breast,
And, rainbowlike the sweet earth clasping,,
left
A bright precipitate of soul, which lives
Ever, and through the lines of sullen men,
The dumb array of ages, speaks for all ;
Flashing by fits, like fire from an enemy's
front ;
Whose thoughts, like bars of sunshine in
shut rooms,
Mid gloom, all glory, win the world to
light;
Who make their very follies like their
souls,
And like the young moon with a ragged
edge,
Still in their imperfection beautiful ;
Whose weaknesses are lovely as their
strengths,
Like the white nebulous matter between
stars,
Which, if not light, at least is likest light ;
Men whom we build our love round like an
arch
Of triumph, as they pass us on their way
To glory, and to immortality ;
Men whose great thoughts possess us like
a passion,
Through every limb and the whole heart ;
whose words
Haunt us, as eagles haunt the mountain
air ;
Whose thoughts command all coming times
and minds,
As from a tower, a warden fix them
selves
Deep in the heart as meteor stones in earth,
Dropp'd from some higher sphere : the
words of gods,
And fragments of the undeem'd tongues of
heaven ;
Men who walk up to fame as to a friend,
Or their own house, which from the wrong
ful heir
They have wrested, from the world's hard
hand and gripe ;
Men who, like death, all bone but all un*
arm'd,
Have ta'en the giant world by the throaty
and thrown him,
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
161
And made him swear to maintain their
name and fame
At peril of his life ; who shed great thoughts
As easily as an oak looseneth its golden
leaves
In a kindly largesse to the soil it grew on ;
Whose names are ever on the world's broad
tongue,
Like sound upon the falling of a force ;
Whose words, if wing'd, are with angels'
wings ;
Who play upon the heart as on a harp,
And make our eyes bright as we speak of
them ;
Whose hearts have a look southwards, and
are open
To the whole noon of nature ; these I have
wak'd,
And wept o'er, night by night ; oft ponder
ing thus :
Homer is gone : and where is Jove ? and
where
The rival cities seven ? His song outlives
Time, tower, and god all that then was,
save heaven.
HELEN'S SONG
The rose is weeping for her love,
The nightingale ;
And he is flying fast above,
To her he will not fail.
Already golden eve appears ;
He wings his way along ;
Ah ! look, he comes to kiss her tears,
And soothe her with his song.
The moon in pearly light may steep
The still blue air ;
The rose hath ceas'd to droop and weep,
For lo ! her love is there ;
He sings to her, and o'er the trees
She hears his sweet notes swim ;
The world may weary ; she but sees
Her love, and hears but him.
LUCIFER AND ELISSA
Elissa. Nigh one year ago,
watch'd that large bright star, much
where 't is now :
.e hath not touch'd its everlasting light
ning,
Nor diinm'd the glorious glances of its eye ;
Nor passion clouded it, nor any star
Eclips'd ; it is the leader still of heaven.
And I who lov'd it then can love it now ;
But am not what I was, in one degree.
Calm star ! who was it naiu'd thee Lucifer,
From him who drew the third of heaven
down with him ?
Oh ! it was but the tradition of thy beaut} I
For if the sun hath one part, and the moon
one,
Thou hast the third part of the host of
heaven
Which is its power which power is but
its beauty t
Lucifer. It was no tradition, lady, but
of truth !
Elissa. I thought we parted last to
meet no more.
Lucifer. It was so, lady ; but it is not BO.
Elissa. Am I to leave, or thou, then ?
Lucifer. Neither, yet.
Elissa. And who art thou that I should
fear and serve ?
Lucifer. I am the morning and the
evening star,
The star thou lovedst ; thy lover too ; as
once
I told thee incredulous ; star and spirit I
am ;
A power, an ill which doth outbalance being.
Behold life's tyrant evil, peer of good,
The great infortune of the universe.
Am I not more than mortal in my form ?
Millions of years have circled round my
brow,
Like worlds upon their centres, still I
live,
And age but presses with a halo's weight.
This single arm hath dash'd the light of
heaven ;
This one hand dragg'd the angels from
their thrones :
Am I not worthy to have lov'd thee, lady ?
Thou mortal model of all lieavenliness I
Yet all these spoils have I abandon'd,
cower'd
My powers, my course becalm'd, and
stoop'd from the high
Destruction of the skies for thee, and him
Who loving thee is with thee lost, both lost
Thou hast but serv'd the purpose ot the
fiend ;
Art but the gilded vessel of selfish sin
Whose poison hath drunken made a soul to
death :
Thou, useless now. I come to bid thee die.
162
THE RHAPSODISTS
Elissa. Wicked, impure, tormentor of
the world,
I knew thee not. Yet doubt not thou it was
Who darkenedst for a moment with base
aim
God to evade, and shun in this world, man,
Love's heart ; with selfish end alone re
deeming
Me from the evil, the death-fright. Take,
nathless,
One human soul's forgiveness, such the sum
Of thanks I feel for heaven's great grace
that thou
From the overflowings of love's cup mayst
quench
Thy breast's broad burning desert, and fer
tilize
Aught may be in it, that boasts one root of
good.
Lucifer. It is doubtless sad to feel one
day our last.
Elissa. I knew, forewarn'd, I was dy
ing. God is good.
The heavens grow darker as they purer
grow,
And both, as we approach them ; so near
death
The soul grows darker and diviner hourly.
Could I love less, I should be happier now.
But always 't is to that mad extreme,
death
Alone appears the fitting end to bliss
Like that my spirit presseth for.
Lucifer. ' Thy death
Gentle shall be as e'er hath been thy life.
I '11 hurt thee not, for once upon this breast,
Fell, like a snowflake on a fever'd lip,
Thy love. Thy soul shall, dreamlike, pass
from thee.
One instant, and thou wakest in heaven
for aye.
Elissa. Lost, say'st thou in one breath,
and sav'd in heaven.
I ever thought thee to be more than mor
tal,
And since thus mighty, grant me and
thou mayst
This one, this only boon, as friend to
friend
Bring him I love, one moment ere I die ;
Life, love, all his. . . .
Lucifer. Cease !
As a wind-flaw, darting from some rifted
cloud,
Seizes upon a water-patch mid main,
And into white wrath worries it, so my
mind
This petty controversy distracts. He comes,
I say, but never shalt thou view him, living.
Elissa. But I will, will see him, and
while I am alive.
I hear him. He is come.
Lucifer. The ends of things
Are urgent. Still, to this mortuary deed
Reluctant, fix I death's black seal. He 's
here !
Elissa. I hear him ; he is come ; it is
he ; it is he !
Lucifer. Die graciously, as ever thou
hast liv'd ;
Die, thou shalt never look upon him again.
Elissa. My love ! haste, Festus ! I am
dying.
Lucifer. Dead !
As ocean racing fast and fierce to reach
Some headland, ere the moon with madden
ing ray
Forestall him, and rebellious tides excite
To vain strife, nor of the innocent skiff that
thwarts
His path, aught heeds, but with dispiteous
foam
Wrecks deathful, I, made hasty by time's
end
Impending, thus fill up fate's tragic form.
A word could kill her. See, she hath gone
to heaven.
SDora oBrccntocil
A SONG OF FAREWELL
THE Spring will come again, dear friends,
The swallow o'er the sea ;
The bud will hang upon the bough,
The blossom on the tree ;
And many a pleasant sound will rise to
greet her on her way,
The voice of bird, and leaf, and stream,
and warm winds in their play ;
Ah ! sweet the airs that round her breathe I
and bountiful is she,
DORA GREENWELL MACDONALD
63
She bringeth all the things that fresh, and
sweet, and hopeful be ;
She scatters promise on the earth with
open hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me !
Summer will come again, dear friends,
Low murmurs of the bee
Will rise through the long sunny day
Above the flowery lea ;
And deep the dreamy woods will own the
slumbrous spell she weaves,
And send a greeting, mix'd with sighs,
through all their quivering leaves.
Oh, precious are her glowing gifts ! and
plenteous is she,
She bringeth all the lovely things that
bright and fragrant be,
She scatters fulness on the Earth with lav
ish hand and free,
But not for me, my friends,
But not for me !
Autumn will come again, dear friends,
His spirit-touch shall be
With gold upon the harvest-field,
W T ith crimson on the tree ;
He passeth o'er the silent wood*, they
wither at big breath,
Slow fading in a still decay, a change that
is not Death.
Oh ! rich and liberal, and wise, and provi
dent is he !
He taketh to his garner-house the things
that ripen'd be,
He gathereth his store from Earth, and
silently
And he will gather me, my friends,
He will gather me I
TO CHRISTINA ROSSETTI
THOU hast fill'd me a golden cup
With a drink divine that glows,
With the bloom that is flowing up
From the heart of the folded rose.
The grapes in their amber glow,
And the strength of the blood-red wine,
All mingle and change and flow
In this golden cup of thine,
With the scent of the curling vine,
With the balm of the rose's breath,
For the voice of love is thine,
And thine is the Song of Death !
LIGHT
THOU art the joy of age :
Thy sun is dear when long the shadow
falls.
Forth to its friendliness the old man crawls,
And, like the bird hung out in his poor
cage
To gather song from radiance, in his chair
Sits by the door ; and sitteth there
His soul within him, like a child that lies
Half dreaming, with half-open eyes,
At close of a long afternoon in summer
High ruins round him, ancient ruins, where
The raven is almost the only comer ;
Half dreams, half broods, in wonderment
At thy celestial descent,
Through rifted loops alighting on the gold
That waves its bloom in many an airy rent :
So dreams the old man's soul, that is not
old,
But sleepy 'mid the ruins that enfold.
What soul-like changes, evanescent
moods,
Upon the face of the still passive earth,
Its hills, and fields, and woods,
Thou with thy seasons and thy hours art
ever calling forth !
Even like a lord of music bent
Over his instrument,
Who gives to tears and smiles an equal
birth!
When clear as holiness the morning ray
Casts the rock's dewy darkness at its
feet,
Mottling with shadows all the mountain
gray;
When, at the hour of sovereign noon, .
Infinite silent cataracts sheet
Shadowless through the air of thunder-
breeding June ;
And when a yellower glory slanting pastes
Twixt longer shadows o'er the meadow
grasses ;
i6 4
THE RHAPSODISTS
When now the moon lifts up her shining
shield,
High on the peak of a cloud-hill reveal'd ;
Now crescent, low, wandering sun-dazed
away,
Unconscious of her own star-mingled ray,
Her still face seeming more to think than
see,
Makes the pale world lie dreaming dreams
of thee !
No mood of mind, no melody of soul,
But lies within thy silent soft control.
Of operative single power,
And simple unity the one emblem,
Yet all the colors that our passionate eyes
devour,
In rainbow, moonbow, or in opal gem,
Are the melodious descant of divided thee.
Lo thee in yellow sands ! lo thee
In the blue air and sea !
In the green corn, with scarlet poppies lit,
Thy half souls parted, patient thou dost sit.
Lo thee in speechless glories of the west !
Lo thee in dewdrop's tiny breast !
Thee on the vast white cloud that floats
away,
Bearing upon its skirt a brown moon-ray !
Regent of color, thou dost fling
Thy overflowing skill on everything !
The thousand hues and shades upon the
flowers
Are all the pastime of thy leisure hours ;
And all the jewelled ores in mines that hid
den be
Are dead till touch'd by thee. L
WORLD AND SOUL
THIS infant world has taken long to make !
Nor hast Thou done the making of it yet,
But wilt be working on when death has set
A new mound in some church-yard for my
sake.
On flow the centuries without a break ;
Uprise the mountains, ages without let ;
The lichens suck the rock's breast food
they get :
Years more than past, the young earth yet
will take.
But in the dumbness of the rolling time,
No veil of silence shall encompass me :
Thou wilt not once forget and let me be ;
Rather wouldstThou some old chaotic prime
Invade, and, with a tenderness sublime,
Unfold a world, that I, thy child, might see.
BABY
WHERE did you come from, baby dear ?
Out of the everywhere into the here.
Where did you get those eyes so blue ?
Out of the sky as I came through.
What makes the light in them sparkle and
spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.
Where did you get that little tear ?
I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and
high?
A soft hand strok'd it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm white
rose ?
I saw something better than any one
knows.
Whence that three-corner'd smile of bliss ?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get this pearly Bar ?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands ?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling
things ?
From the same box as the cherubs' wings.
How did they all just come to be you ?
God thought about me, and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear ?
God thought about you, and so I aw
here.
SONG
I DREAM'D that I woke from a dream,
And the house was full of light ;
At the window two angel Sorrows
Held back the curtains of night.
The door was wide, and the house
Was full of the morning wind ;
At the door two armed warders
Stood silent, with faces blind.
MACDONALD MASSEY
'6$
I ran to the open door,
For the wind of the world was sweet ;
The warders with crossing weapons
Turn'd back my issuing feet.
I ran to the shining windows
Inere the winged Sorrows stood ;
Silent they held the curtain*.
And the light fell through in a flood.
I clomb to the highest window
Ah ! there, with shadow'd brow,
Stood one lonely radiant Sorrow,
And that, my love, was thou.
THE DESERTER FROM THE
CAUSE
HE is gone : better so. We should know
who stand under
Our banner : let none but the trusty
remain !
For there's stern work at hand, and the
time comes shall sunder
The shell from the pearl, and the chaff
fiom. the grain.
And the heart that through danger and
death will be dutiful,
Soul that with Cranmer in fire would
shake hands,
With a life like a palace-home built for
the beautiful,
Freedom of all her beloved demands.
He is gone from us ! Yet shall we march
on victorious,
Hearts burning like beacons eyes fix'd
on the goal !
And if we fall fighting, we fall like the
glorious,
With face to the stars, and all heaven
in the soul.
And aye for the brave stir of battle we 11
barter
The sword of life sheath'd in the peace
of the grave ;
And better the fieriest fete of the martyr,
Than live like the coward, and die like
the slave !
CHRISTIE'S PORTRAIT
YOUR tiny picture makes me yearn ;
We are so far apart !
My darling, I can only turn
And kiss you in my heart.
A thousand tender thoughts a-wing
Swarm in a summer clime,
And hover round it murmuring
Like bees at honey-time.
Upon a little girl I look
Whose pureness makes me Bad ;
I read as in a holy book,
I grow in secret glad.
It seems my darling conies to me
With something I have lost
Over life's toss'd and troubled sea,
On some celestial coast.
I think of her when spirit-bow'd ;
A glory fills the place !
Like sudden light on swords, the proud
Smile flashes in my face :
And others see, in passing by,
But cannot understand
The vision shining in mine eye,
My strength of heart and hand.
That grave content and touching grace
Bring tears into mine eyes ;
She makes my heart a holy place
Where hymns and incense rise.
Such calm her gentle spirit brings
As, smiling overhead,
White-statued saints with peaceful wings
Shadow the sleeping dead.
Our Christie is no rosy Grace
With beauty all may see,
But I have never felt a face
Grow half so dear to me.
No curling hair about her brows,
Like many merry girls ;
Well, straighter to my heart it goef,
And round it curls and curls.
Meek as the wood anemone glints
To see if heaven be blue,
Is my pale flower with her sweet tint*
Of heaven shining through.
i66
THE RHAPSODISTS
She will be poor and never fret,
Sleep sound and lowly lie ;
Will live her quiet life, and let
The great world-storm go by.
Dear love ! God keep her in his grasp,
Meek maiden, or brave wife,
Till his good angels softly clasp
Her closed book of life !
And this fair picture of the sun,
With birthday blessings given,
Shall fade before a glorious one
Taken of her in heaven.
HIS BANNER OVER ME
SURROUNDED by unnumber'd foes,
4 Against my soul the battle goes !
Yet though I weary, sore distrest,
I know that I shall reach my rest :
I lift rny tearful eyes above,
His banner over me is love.
Its sword my spirit will not yield,
Though flesh may faint upon the field ;
He waves before my fading sight
The branch of palm, the crown of light 5
I lift my brightening eyes above,
His banner over me is love.
My cloud of battle-dust may dim,
His veil of splendor curtain him !
And in the midnight of my fear
I may not feel him standing near ;
But, as I lift mine eyes above,
His banner over me is love.
FROM "A LIFE-DRAMA"
FORERUNNERS
Walter. I have a strain of a departed
bard;
One who was born too late into this world.
A mighty day was past, and he saw nought
But ebbing sunset and the rising stars,
Still o'er him rose those melancholy stars !
Unknown his childhood, save that he was
born
'Mong woodland waters full of silver
breaks ;
I was to him but Labrador to Ind ;
His pearls were plentier than my pebble
stones.
He was the sun, I was that squab the
earth,
And bask'd me in his light until he drew
Flowers from my barren sides. Oh ! he
was rich,
And I rejoiced upon his shore of pearls,
A weak enamor'd sea. Once he did say,
" My Friend ! a Poet must ere long arise,
And with a regal song sun-crown this age,
As a saint's head is with a halo crown'd ;
One, who shall hallow Poetry to God
And to its own high use, for Poetry is
The grandest chariot wherein king-thoughts
ride ;
One, who shall fervent grasp the sword ot
song,
As a stern swordsman grasps his keenest
blade,
To find the quickest passage to the heart.
A mighty Poet, whom this age shall choose
To be its spokesman to all coming times.
In the ripe full-blown season of his soul,
He shall go forward in his spirit's strength,
And grapple with the questions of all time,
And wring from them their meanings. As
King Saul
Call'd up the buried prophet from his
grave
To speak his doom, so shall this Poet-king
Call up the dead Past from its awful grave
To tell him of our future. As the air
Doth sphere the world, so shall his heart
of love
Loving mankind, not peoples. As the lake
Reflects the flower, tree, rock, and bending
heaven,
Shall he reflect our great humanity ;
And as the young Spring breathes with liv
ing breath
On a dead branch, till it sprouts fragrantly
Green leaves and sunny flowers, shall he
breathe life
Through every theme he touch, making all
Beauty
And Poetry for ever like the stars."
His words set me on fire ; I cried aloud,
AI.KXANDER SMITH
167
" Gods ! what a portion to forerun this
Soul 1 "
He grasp'd my hand, I look'd upon his
face,
A thought struck all the blood into his
cheeks,
Like a strong buffet. His great flashing
eyes
Buru'd on mine own. He said, " A grim
old king,
Whose blood leap'd madly when the trum
pets bray'd
To joyous battle 'mid a storm of steeds,
Won a rich kingdom on a battle-day ;
But in the sunset he was ebbing fast,
Ring'd by his weeping lords. His left
hand held
His white steed, to the belly splash' d with
blood,
That seem'd to mourn him with its droop
ing head ;
His right, his broken brand ; and in his
ear
His old victorious banners flap the winds.
He called his faithful herald to his side,
Go ! tell the dead I come ! ' With a proud
smile,
The warrior with a stab let out his soul,
Which fled and shriek'd through all the
other world,
' Ye dead ! My master comes ! * And
there was pause
Till the great shade should enter. Like
that herald, .
Walter, I 'd rush across this waiting world
And cry, ' He comes 1 " Lady, wilt hear
the song ? [Sings.
A MINOR POET
He sat one winter 'neath a linden tree
In my bare orchard ; "See, my friend,"
he said,
" The stars among the branches hang like
fruit,
), hopes were thick within me. When
I 'in gone
The world will like a valuator sit
Upon my soul, and say, ' I was a cloud
That caught its glory from a sunken sun,
And gradual burn'd into its native gray.' "
On an October eve, 't was his last wish
To see again the mists and golden woods ;
Upon his death-bed he was lifted up,
The slumb'rous sun within the lazy west
With their last gladness flll'd his dyin*
eyes.
No sooner was he hence than critic-worms
Were swarming on the body of his fame,
And thus they judged the dead:
Poet was
An April tree whose vermeil-loaded boughs
Promis'd to Autumn apples juiced and red,
But never came to fruit." " He is to us
But a rich odor, a faint music-swell."
" Poet he was not in the larger sense ;
He coirtd write pearls, but he could never
write
A Poem round and perfect as a star."
" Politic, i' faith. His most judicious act
Was dying when he did ; the next five years
Had tinger'd all the tine dust from his
wings,
And left him poor as we. He died 't was
shrewd !
And came witli all his youth and unblown
hopes
On the world's heart, and touch'd it into
tears."
SEA-MARGE
The lark is singing in the blinding sky,
Hedges are white with May. The bride
groom sea
Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride,
And, in the fulness of his marriage joy,
He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
Retires a space, to see how fair she looks,
Then proud, runs up to kiss her. All is
fair
All glad, from grass to sun t Yet more I
love
Than this, the shrinking day that some
times conies
In Winter's front, so fair 'mong its dark
peers,
It seems a straggler from the files of June,
Which in its wanderings had lost its wits,
And half its beauty ; and, when it return'd,
Finding its old companions one away,
It join'd November's troop, then inarching
past ;
And so the frail thing comes, and greets
the world
With a thin crazy smile, then bursts in
tears,
And all the while it holds within its hand
A few half-wither'd dowers. I love and
pity it !
1 68
EARLY HYMNODY
BEAUTY
BEAUTY still walketh on the earth and air,
Our present sunsets are as rich in gold
As ere the Iliad's music was out-roll'd ;
The roses of the Spring are ever fair,
? Mong branches green still ring-doves coo
and pair,
And the deep sea still foams its music old.
So, if we are at all divinely soul'd,
This beauty will unloose our bonds of care.
'T is pleasant, when blue skies are o'er us
bending
Within old starry-gated Poesy,
To meet a soul set to no worldly tune,
Like thine, sweet Friend ! Oh, dearer this
to me
Than are the dewy trees, the sun, the moon,
Or noble music with a golden ending.
TO
THE broken moon lay in the autumn sky,
And I lay at thy feet ;
You bent above me ; in the silence I
Could hear my wild heart beat.
I spoke ; my soul was full of trembling fears
At what my words would bring :
You rais'd your face, your eyes were full
of tears,
As the sweet eyes of Spring.
You kiss'd me then, I worshipp'd at thy
feet
Upon the shadowy sod.
Oh, fool, I lov'd thee ! lov'd thee, lovely
cheat !
Better than Fame or God.
My soul leap'd up beneath thy timid kiss ;
What then to me were groans,
Or pain, or death ? Earth was a round of
bliss,
I seem'd to walk on thrones.
And you were with me 'mong the rushing
wheels,
'Mid Trade's tumultuous jars ;
And where to awe-struck wilds the Night
reveals
Her hollow gulfs of stars.
Before your window, as before a shrine,
I 've knelt 'mong dew-soak'd flowers,
While distant music-bells, with voices fine,
Measur'd the midnight hours.
There came a fearful moment : I was pale,
You wept, and never spoke,
But clung around me as the woodbine frail
Clings, pleading, round an oak.
Upon my wrong I steadied up my soul,
And flung thee from myself ;
I spurn'd thy love as 't were a rich man's
dole,
It was my only wealth.
I spurn'd thee ! I, who lov'd thee, could
have died,
That hop'd to call thee " wife,"
And bear thee, gently-smiling at my side,
Through all the shocks of life !
Too late, thy fatal beauty and thy tears,
Thy vows, thy passionate breath ;
I '11 meet thee not in Life, nor in the spheres
Made visible by Death.
EARLY HYMNODY
(See also: S. F. ADAMS, ALFORD, E. B. BROWNING, H. COLERIDGE, DE VERE, Fox,
MARTINEAU, NEWMAN)
AT HOME IN HEAVEN
FOREVER with the Lord ! "
Amen, so let it be ;
Life from the dead is in that word,
T is immortality.
Here in the body pent,
Absent from him I roam,
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
A day's march nearer home.
MONTGOMERY ELLIOTT
169
My Father's house on high,
Home of my soul, how near
At times, to faith's foreseeing eye,
Thy golden gates appear I
Ah I then my spirit faints
To reach the land I love,
The bright inheritance of saints,
Jerusalem above.
Yet clouds will intervene,
And all my prospect flies ;
Like Noah's dove, I Hit between
Rough seas and stormy skies.
Anon the clouds dispart,
The winds and waters cease,
While sweetly o'er my gladden'd heart
Expands the bow o? peace.
Beneath its glowing arch,
Along the hallow'd ground,
I see cherubic armies march,
A camp of fire around.
I hear at morn and even,
At noon and midnight hour,
The choral harmonies of heaven
Earth's Babel-tongues o'erpower.
Then, then I feel that he,
Remember'd or forgot,
The Lord, is never far from me,
Though I perceive him not.
Charlotte vCHiott
JUST AS I AM
JUST as I am, without one plea
But that thy blood was shed for me,
And that thou bid'st me come to thee,
O Lamb of God, I come I
Just as I am, and waiting not
To rid my soul of one dark blot,
To thee, whose blood can cleanse each spot,
O Lamb of God, I come !
Just as I am, though toss'd about,
With many a conflict, many a doubt,
Fightings and fears within, without,
O Lamb of God, I come I
Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind ;
Sight, riches, healing of the mind,
Yea, all I need, in thee to find,
O Lamb of God; I come !
Just as I am, thou wilt receive,
Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve ;
Because thy promise I believe,
O Lamb of God, I come !
Just as 1 am thy love unknown
Has broken every banner down ;
Now to be thine, yea, thine alone,
O Lamb of God, I come I
Just as I am, of that free love,
The breadth, length, depth, and height to
prove,
Here for a season, then above,
O Lamb of God, I come !
LET ME BE WITH THEE
LET me be with thee where thou art,
My Saviour, my eternal rest 1
Then only will this longing heart
Be fully and forever blest.
Let me be with thee where thou art,
Thy unveil'd glory to behold ;
Then only will this wandering heart
Cease to be treacherous, faithless, cold.
Let me be with thee where thou art,
Where spotless saints thy name adore ;
Then only will this sinful heart
Be evil and defil'd no more.
Let me be with thee where thou art,
Where none can die, where none re-
move ;
There neither death nor life will part
Me from thy presence and thy love I
170
EARLY HYMNODY
PRAYER TO THE TRINITY
LEAD us. heavenly Father, lead us
O'er the world's tempestuous sea ;
Guard us, guide us, keep us, feed us,
For we have no help but thee ;
Yet possessing
Every blessing,
If our God our Father be.
Saviour, breathe forgiveness o'er us ;
All our weakness thou dost know ;
Thou didst tread this earth before us,
Thou didst feel its keenest woe j
Lone and dreary,
Faint and weary,
Through the desert thou didst go.
Spirit of our God, descending.
Fill our hearts with heavenly joy ,
Love with every passion blending,
Pleasure that can never cloy :
Thus provided,
Pardon'd, guided,
Nothing can our peace destroy.
HYMN FOR THE SIXTEENTH
SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY
WHEN our heads are bow'd with woe,
When our bitter tears o'erflow,
When we mourn the lost, the dear :
Gracious Son of Mary, hear !
Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn,
Thou our mortal griefs hast borne,
Thou hast shed the human tear :
Gracious Son of Mary, hear !
When the sullen death-bell tolls
For our own departed souls
When our final doom is near,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear !
Thou hast bow'd the dying head,
Thou the blood of life hast shed,
Thou hast filFd a mortal bier
Gracious Son of Mary, hear !
When the heart is sad within
With the thought of all its sin,
When the spirit shrinks with fear,
Gracious Son of Mary, hear I
Thou the shame, the grief hast known ;
Though the sins were not Thine own,
Thou hast deign'd their load to bear :
Gracious Son of Mary, hear I
BURIAL HYMN
BROTHER, thou art gone before us,
And thy saintly soul is flown
Where tears are wip'd from every eye,
And sorrow is unknown.
From the burden of the flesh,
And from care and sin releas'd,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
The toilsome way thou 'st travell'd o'er,
And hast borne the heavy load ;
But Christ hath taught thy wandering feet
To reach his bless'd abode ;
Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus,
On his Father's faithful breast,
Where the wicked cease from troubling.,
And the weary are at rest.
Sin can never taint thee now,
Nor can doubt thy faith assail ;
Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ
And the Holy Spirit fail ;
And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good,
Whom on earth thou lovest best,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
" Earth to earth," and "dust to dust,"
Thus the solemn priest hath said ;
So we lay the turf above thee now,
And seal thy narrow bed j
MILMAN KEBLE
'7'
But thy spirit, brother, soars away
Among the faithful blest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
And when the Lord shall summon us
Whom thou now hast left behind,
May we, untainted by the world,
As sure a welcome find ;
May each, like thee, depart in peace,
To be a glorious, happy guest,
Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.
RIDE ON IN MAJESTY
RIDE on ! ride on in majesty !
In lowly pomp ride on to die ;
O Christ, thy triumphs now begin
O'er captive death and conquer'd sin I
Ride on ! ride on in majesty I
The winged armies of the sky
Look down with sad and wondering eyet
To see the approaching sacrifice.
Ride on ! ride on in majesty !
The last and fiercest strife is nigh ;
The Father on his sapphire throne
Expects his own anointed Son.
Ride on I ride on in majesty I
In lowly pomp ride on to die ;
Bow thy meek head to mortal pain,
Then take, O God, thy power, and reign I
WHO RUNS MAY READ
THERE is a book, who runs may read,
Which heavenly truth imparts,
And all the lore its scholars need,
Pure eyes and Christian hearts.
The works of God above, below,
Within us and around,
Are pages in that book, to show
How God himself is found.
The glorious sky, embracing all,
Is like the Maker's love,
Wherewith encompass'd, great and small
In peace and order move.
The moon above, the Church below,
A wondrous race they run,
But all their radiance, all their glow,
Each borrows of its sun.
The Saviour lends the light and heat
That crowns his holy hill ;
The saints, like stars, around his seat,
Perform their courses still.
saints above are stars in heaven
What are the saints on earth ?
te trees they stand whom God has given,
Our Eden's happy birth.
Faith is their fix'd unswerving root,
Hope their unfading flower,
Fair deeds of charity their fruit,
The glory of their bower.
The dew of heaven is like thy grace.
It steals in silence down ;
But where it lights, the favor'd place
By richest fruits is known.
One Name, above all glorious names,
With its ten thousand tongues
The everlasting sea proclaims,
Echoing angelic songs.
The raging fire, the roaring wind,
Thy boundless power display :
But in the gentler breeze we find
Thy spirit's viewless way.
Two worlds are ours : 't is only sin
Forbids us to descry
The mystic heaven and earth within,
Plain as the sea and sky.
Thou, who hast given me eyes to see
And love this sight so fair,
Give me a heart to find out thee,
And read thee everywhere.
172
EARLY HYMNODY
SEED TIME HYMN
LORD, in thy name thy servants plead,
And thou hast sworn to hear ;
Thine is the harvest, thine the seed,
The fresh and fading year :
Our hope, when autumn winds blew wild,
We trusted, Lord, with thee ;
And still, now spring has on us smil'd,
We wait on thy decree.
The former and the latter rain,
The summer sun and air,
The green ear, and the golden grain,
All thine, are ours by prayer.
Thine too by right, and ours by grace,
The wondrous growth unseen,
The hopes that soothe, the fears that brace,
The love, that shines serene.
So grant the precious things brought forth
By sun and moon below,
That thee in thy new heaven and earth
We never may forego.
HOLY MATRIMONY
THE voice that breath'd o'er Eden,
That earliest wedding-day,
The primal marriage blessing,
It bath not pass'd away.
Still in the pure espousal
Of Christian man and maid,
The holy Three are with us,
The threefold grace is said.
For dower of blessed children,
For love and faith's sweet sake,
For high mysterious union,
Which nought on earth may break.
Be present, awful Father,
To give away this bride,
As Eve thou gav'st to Adam
Out of his own pierced side :
Be present, Son of Mary,
To join their loving hands,
As thou didst bind two natures
In thine eternal bands :
Be present, Holiest Spirit,
To bless them as they kneel,
As thou for Christ, the Bridegroom,
The heavenly Spouse dost seal.
Oh, spread thy pure wing o'er them,
Let no ill power find place,
When onward to thine altar
The hallow'd path they trace,
To cast their crowns before thee
In perfect sacrifice,
Till to the home of gladness
With Christ's own Bride they rise. AMEN;
FROM THE RECESSES
FROM the recesses of a lowly spirit
My humble prayer ascends : O Father !
hear it.
Upsoaring on the wings of fear and meek
ness,
Forgive its weakness.
I know, I feel, how mean and how un
worthy
Tie trembling sacrifice I pour before thee ;
What can I offer in thy presence holy,
But sin and folly ?
For in thy sight, who every bosom viewest,
Cold are our warmest vows and vain our
truest ;
Thoughts of a hurrying hour ; our lips re
peat them,
Our hearts forget them.
We see thy hand it leads us, it supports
us ;
We hear thy voice it counsels and it
courts us ;
And then we turn away and still thy
kindness
Pardons our blindness,
BOWRING LYTE
'73
still thy ruin descends, thy sun is
glowing,
its ripen round, flowers are beneath us
blowing,
as if man were some deserving crea
ture,
Joys cover nature.
how long-suffering, Lord ! but thou
delightest
win with love the wandering ; thou in-
vitest
smiles of mercy, not by frowns or ter
rors,
Man from his errors.
can resist thy gentle call, appealing
every generous thought and grateful
feeling ?
voice paternal whispering, watching
ever,
My bosom ? never.
fcher and Saviour ! plant within that bosom
jse seeds of holiness ; and bid them
blossom
fragrance and in beauty bright and ver
nal,
And spring eternal.
place them in those everlasting gar
dens
ire angels walk, and seraphs are the
wardens ;
Where every flower that creeps through
death's dark portal
Becomes immortal.
WHAT OF THE NIGHT?
WATCHMAN, tell us of the night,
What its signs of promise are (
Traveller, o'er yon mountain's height
See that glory-beaming star I
Watchman, doth its beauteous raj
Aught of hope or joy foretell ?
Traveller, yes ! it brings the day,
Promis'd day of Israel.
Watchman, tell us of the night :
Higher yet that star ascends !
Traveller, blessedness and light,
Peace and truth, its course portends.
Watchman, will its beams alone
Gild the spot that gave them birth ?
Traveller, ages are its own,
And it bursts o'er all the earth !
Watchman, tell us of the night,
For the morning seems to dawn.
Traveller, darkness takes its flight,
Doubt and terror are withdrawn.
Watchman, let thy wand 'rings cease ;
Hie thee to thy quiet home.
Traveller, lo ! the Prince of Peace,
Lo ! the Son of God is come.
ABIDE WITH ME
ABIDE with me ! Fast falls the eventide ;
The darkness deepens : Lord, with me
abide !
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, abide with me !
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ;
Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass
away :
Change and decay in all around I see ;
O thou, who changest not, abide with me !
Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word,
But as thou dwell'st with thy disciples, Lord,
Familiar, condescending, patient, free,
Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me t
Come not in terrors, as the King of kings ;
But kind and good, with healing in thy
wings :
Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ;
Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide
with me 1
Thou on my head in early youth didst
smile,
And, though rebellious and perverse
meanwhile,
Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee :
On to the close, O Lord, abide with me I
174
EARLY HYMNODY
I need thy presence every passing hour.
What but thy grace can foil the Tempter's
power ?
Who like thyself my guide and stay can
be?
Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with
me !
I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless :
Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
Where is death's sting, where, grave, thy
victory ?
I triumph still, if thou abide with me.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes ;
Shine through the gloom, and point me to
the skies :
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain
shadows flee :
In life and death, O Lord, abide with me !
"LO, WE HAVE LEFT ALL"
JESUS, I my cross have taken,
All to leave, and follow thee ;
Destitute, despis'd, forsaken,
Thou, from hence, my all shalt be.
Perish every fond ambition,
All I 've sought and hop'd and known,
Yet how rich is my condition,
God and heaven are still my own !
Let the world despise and leave me,
They have left my Saviour, too ;
Human hearts and looks deceive me ;
Thou art not, like man, untrue ;
And, while thou shalt smile upon me,
God of wisdom, love, and might,
Foes may hate and friends may shun me :
Show thy face, and all is bright.
Go, then, earthly fame and treasure !
Come, disaster, scorn, and pain !
In thy service pain is pleasure ;
With thy favor loss is gain.
I have call'd thee Abba, Father ;
I have stay'd my heart on thee :
Storms may howl, and clouds may gather,
All must work for good to me.
Man may trouble and distress me,
'T will but drive me to thy breast ;
Life with trials hard may press me,
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
Oh, 't is not in grief to harm me,
While thy love is left to me !
Oh, 't were not in joy to charm me,
Were that joy immix'd with thee I
Take, my soul, thy full salvation,
Rise o'er sin and fear and care ;
Joy to find in every station
Something still to do or bear.
Think what Spirit dwells within thee j
What a Father's smile is thine ;
What a Saviour died to win thee :
Child of heaven, shouldst thou repine ?
Haste then on from grace to glory,
Arm'd by faith, and wing'd by" prayer ;
Heaven's eternal day 's before thee,
God's own hand shall guide thee there.
Soon shall close thy earthly mission,
Swift shall pass thy pilgrim days,
Hope soon change to glad fruition,
Faith to sight, and prayer to praise !
THE SECRET PLACE
THERE is a safe and secret place
Beneath the wings divine,
Reserv'd for all the heirs of grace :
Oh, be that refuge mine !
The least and feeblest there may bide
Uninjur'd and unaw'd ;
While thousands fall on every side,
He rests secure in God.
The angels watch him on his way,
And aid with friendly arm ;
And Satan, roaring for his prey,
May hate, but cannot harm.
He feeds in pastures large and fair
Of love and truth divine ;
O child of God, O glory's heir,
How rich a lot is thine !
A hand almighty to defend,
An ear for every call,
An honor'd life, a peaceful end,
And heaven to crown it all 1
I
WILBERFORCE C. WORDSWORTH BONAR
'75
BDilbcrforcc
JUST FOR TO-DAY
LORD, for to-morrow and its needs
I do not pray ;
Keep me from any stain of sin
Just for to-day :
Let me both diligently work
And duly pray ;
Let me be kind in word and deed
Just for to-day,
Let me be slow to do my will
Prompt to obey :
Help me to sacrifice myself
Just for to-day.
Let me no wrong or idle word
Unthinking say
Set thou thy seal upon my lips,
Just for to-day.
So for to-morrow and its needs
I do not pray,
But keep me, guide me, hold me, Lord,
Just for to-day.
GIVING TO GOD
O LORD of heaven, and earth, and sea !
To thee all praise and glory be ;
How shall we show our love to thee,
Who givest all who givest all ?
The golden sunshine, vernal air,
Sweet flowers and fruit thy love declare ;
When harvests ripen, thou art there,
Who givest all -^- who givest all.
For peaceful homes and healthful days,
For all the blessings earth displays,
We owe thee thankfulness and praise,
Who givest all who givest all.
For souls redeem'd, for sins forgiven,
For means of grace and hopes of heaven,
What can to thee, O Lord ! be given,
Who givest all who givest all ?
We lose what on ourselves we spend,
We have, as treasures without end,
Whatever, Lord, to thee we lend,
Who givest all who givest all.
Whatever, Lord, we lend to thee,
Repaid a thousand-fold will be ;
Then gladly will we give to thee,
Who givest all who givest alL
LOST BUT FOUND
I WA8 a wandering sheep,
I did not love the fold ;
I did not love my Shepherd's voice,
I would not be controlled.
I was a wayward child,
I did not love my home,
I did not love my Father's voice,
I lov'd afar to roam.
The Shepherd sought his sheep ;
The Father sought his child ;
They follow'd me o'er vale and hill,
O'er deserts waste and wild.
They found me nigh to death,
Famish'd, and faint, and lone ;
They bound me with the bands of love ;
They sav'd the wandering one.
They spoke in tender love,
They rais'd my drooping head ;
They gently clos'd my bleeding wounds,
My fainting soul they fed.
They wash'd my filth away,
They made me clean and fair ;
They brought me to my home in peace,
The long-sought wanderer.
i 7 6
EARLY HYMNODY
Jesus my Shepherd is,
'T was he that lov'd my soul ;
'T was he that wash'd me in his blood,
'T was he that made me whole ;
'T was he that sought the lost,
That found the wandering sheep ;
'T was he that brought me to the fold,
'Tis he that still doth keep.
I was a wandering sheep,
I would not be control!' d ;
But now I love my Shepherd's voice,
I love, I love the fold.
I was a wayward child,
I once preferr'd to roam ;
But now I love my Father's voice,
I love, I love his home.
THE VOICE FROM GALILEE
I HEARD the voice of Jesus say,
Come unto me and rest ;
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down
Thy head upon my breast.
I came to Jesus as I was,
Weary, and worn, and sad,
I found in him a resting-place,
And he has made me glad.
I heard the voice of Jesus say,
Behold, I freely give
The living water, thirsty one,
Stoop down, and drink, and live.
I came to Jesus and I drank
Of that life-giving stream ;
My thirst was quench'd, my soul reviv'd,
And now I live in him.
I heard the voice of Jesus say,
I am this dark world's light,
Look unto me, thy morn shall rise
And all thy day be bright.
I look'd to Jesus, and I found
In him my Star, my Sun ;
And in that light of life I' 11 walk
Till travelling days are done.
THY WAY, NOT MINE
THY way, not mine, O Lord,
However dark it be !
Lead me by thine own hand,
Choose out the path for me.
Smooth let it be, or rough,
It will be still the best ;
Winding or straight, it matters not,
Right onward to thy rest.
I dare not choose my lot ;
I would not, if I might ;
Choose thou for me, my God ;
So shall I walk aright.
The kingdom that I seek
Is thine ; so let the way
That leads to it be thine,
Else I must surely stray.
Take thou my cup, and it
With joy or sorrow fill,
As best to thee may seem ;
Choose thou my good and ill ;
Choose thou for me my friends,
My sickness or my health ;
Choose thou my cares for me,
My poverty or wealth.
Not mine, not mine the choice,
In things or great or small ;
Be thou my guide, my strength,
My wisdom, and my all.
ABIDE WITH US
'T is evening now !
O Saviour, wilt not thou
Enter my home and heart,
Nor ever hence depart,
Even when the morning breaks.
And earth again awakes ?
Thou wilt abide with me,
And I with thee.
The world is old !
Its air grows dull and cold ;
Upon its aged face
The wrinkles come apace ;
Its western sky is wan,
Its youth and joy are gone.
O Master, be our light,
When o'er us falls the night.
Evil is round !
Iniquities abound ;
Our cottage will be lone
When the great Sun is gone ;
!
BONAR MONSELL
'77
O Saviour, come and bless,
Come share our loneliness ;
We need a comforter ;
Take up thy dwelling here.
THE MASTER'S TOUCH
IN the still air the music lies unheard ;
In the rough marble beauty hides un
seen ;
To 'wake the music and the beauty needs
The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel
keen.
Great Master, touch us with thy skilful
hand,
Let not the music that is in us die ;
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us ; nor
let,
Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie.
Spare not the stroke ; do with us as thou
wilt ;
Let there be nought untinish'd, broken,
marr'd ;
Complete thy purpose, that we may become
Thy perfect image, O our God and Lord.
A LITTLE WHILE
BEYOND the smiling and the weeping
I shall be soon ;
Beyond the waking and the sleeping,
Beyond the sowing and the reaping,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home I
Sweet hope !
Lord, tarry not, but come.
Beyond the blooming and the fading
I shall be soon ;
Beyond the shining and the shading,
Beyond the hoping and the dreading,
I shall be soon.
Beyond the rising and the setting
I shall be soon ;
Beyond the calming and the fretting,
Beyond remembering and forgetting,
I shall be soon.
Beyond the gathering and the strewing
I shall be soon ;
Beyond the ebbing and the flowing,
Beyond the coming and the going,
I shall be soon. J
Beyond the parting and the meeting
I shall be soon ;
Beyond the farewell and the greeting,
Beyond this pulse's fever beating,
I shall be soon.
Beyond the frost chain and the fever
I shall be soon ;
Beyond the rock waste and the river,
Beyond the ever and the never,
I shall be soon.
Love, rest, and home !
Sweet hope I
Lord, tarry not, but come.
3joljn ^Samuel 2>etolep
LITANY
WHEN my feet have wander' d
From the narrow way
Out into the desert,
Gone like sheep astray ;
Soil'd and sore with travel
Through the ways of men,
All too weak to bear me
Back to Thee again :
Hear me, O my Father !
From Thy mercy-seat,
Save me by the passion
Of the bleeding feet I
When my hands, unholy
Through some sinful deed
Wrought in me, have freshly
Made my Saviour's bleed :
And I cannot lift up
Mine to Thee in prayer,
Tied and bound, and holdan
Back by my despair :
Then, my Father ! loose them,
Break for me their bands,
Save me by the passion
Of the bleeding hands I :
i 7 8
EARLY HYMNODY
When my thoughts, unruly,
Dare to doubt of Thee,
And thy ways to question
Deem is to be free :
Till, through cloud and darkness,
Wholly gone astray,
They find no returning
To the narrow way :
Then, my God ! mine only
Trust and truth art Thou ;
Save me by the passion
Of the bleeding brow !
When my heart, forgetful
Of the love that yet,
Though by man forgotten,
Never can forget ;
All its best affections
Spent on things below,
In its sad despondings
Knows not where to go :
Then, my God ! mine only
Hope and help Thou art ;
Save me by the passion
Of the bleeding heart !
jfrefccricft IMIiam jfafcer
THE WILL OF GOD
I WORSHIP thee, sweet will of God !
And all thy ways adore ;
And every day I live, I seem
To love thee more and more.
Thou wert the end, the blessed rule
Of our Saviour's toils and tears ;
Thou wert the passion of his heart
Those three and thirty years.
And he hath breath'd into my soul
A special love of thee,
A love to lose my will in his,
And by that loss be free.
I love to see thee bring to nought
The plans of wily men ;
When simple hearts outwit the wise,
Oh, thou art loveliest then.
The headstrong world it presses hard
Upon the church full oft,
And then how easily thou turn'st
The hard ways into soft.
I love to kiss each print where thou
Hast set thine unseen feet ;
I cannot fear thee, blessed will !
Thine empire is so sweet.
When obstacles and trials seem
Like prison walls to be,
1 do the little I can do,
And leave the rest to thee.
I know not what it is to doubt,
My heart is ever gay ;
I run no risk, for, come what will,
Thou always hast thy way.
I have no cares, O blessed will !
For all my cares are thine :
I live in triumph, Lord ! for thou
Hast made thy triumphs mine.
And when it seems no chance or change
From grief can set me free,
Hope finds its strength in helplessness,
And gayly waits on thee.
Man's weakness, waiting upon God,
Its end can never miss,
For men on earth no work can do
More angel-like than this.
Ride on, ride on, triumphantly,
Thou glorious will, ride on !
Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take
The road that thou hast gone.
He always wins who sides with God,
To him no chance is lost ;
God's will is sweetest to him, when
It triumphs at his cost.
Ill that he blesses is our good,
And unbless'd good is ill ;
And all is right that seems most wrong,
If it be his sweet wilL
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER
'79
PARADISE
O PARADISE, O Paradise,
Who doth not crave for rest,
Who would not seek the happy land
Where they that lov'd are blest ?
Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,
All rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight.
O Paradise, O Paradise,
The world is growing old ;
Who would not be at rest and free
Where love is never cold ?
O Paradise, O Paradise,
Wherefore doth death delay ?
Bright death, that is the welcome dawn
Of our eternal day.
Paradise, O Paradise,
'T is weary waiting here ;
1 long to be where Jesus is,
To feel, to see him near.
Paradise, O Paradise,
I want to sin no more,
1 want to be as pure on earth
As on thy spotless shore.
O Paradise, O Paradise,
I greatly long to see
The special place my dearest Lord
Is destining for me.
O Paradise, O Paradise,
I feel 't will not be long ;
Patience ! I almost think I hear
Faint fragments of thy song ;
Where loyal hearts and true
Stand ever in the light,
AH rapture through and through,
In God's most holy sight.
THE RIGHT MUST WIN
OH, it is hard to work for God,
To rise and take his part
Upon this battle-field of earth,
And not sometimes lose heart I
He hides himself so wondrously,
As though there were no God ;
He is least seen when all the powers
Of ill are most abroad.
Or he deserts us at the hour
The fight is all but lost ;
And seems to leave us to ourselves
Just when we need him most
111 masters good ; good seems to change
To ill with greatest ease ;
And, worst of all, the good with good
Is at cross-purposes.
Ah ! God is other than we think ;
His ways are far above,
Far beyond reason's height, and reach'd
Only by childlike love.
Workman of God ! Oh, lose not heart,
But learn what God is like ;
And in the darkest battle-field
Thou shalt know where to strike.
Thrice bless'd is he to whom is given
The instinct that can tell
That God is on the field when he
Is most invisible.
Bless'd, too, is he who can divine
Where real right doth lie,
And dares to take the side that seem*
Wrong to man's blindfold eye.
For right is right, since God is God ;
And right the day must win ;
To doubt would be disloyalty,
To falter would be sin.
i8o
EARLY HYMNODY
TEACH US TO DIE
WHERE shall we learn to die ?
Go, gaze with steadfast eye
On dark Gethsemane
Or darker Calvary,
Where through each lingering hour
The Lord of grace and power,
Most lowly and most high,
Has taught the Christian how to die.
When in the olive shade
His long last prayer he pray'd,
When on the cross to heaven
His parting spirit was given,
He show'd that to fulfil
The Father's gracious will,
Not asking how or why,
Alone prepares the soul to die.
No word of anxious strife,
No anxious cry for life ;
By scoff and torture torn,
He speaks not scorn for scorn ;
Calmly forgiving those
Who deem themselves his foes,
In silent majesty
He points the way at peace to die.
Delighting to the last
In memories of the past ;
Glad at the parting meal
In lowly tasks to kneel ;
Still yearning to the end
For mother and for friend ;
His great humility
Loves in such acts of love to die.
Beyond his depth of woes
A wider thought arose,
Along his path of gloom,
Thought for his country's doom ;
Athwart all pain and grief,
Thought for the contrite thief :
The far-stretch'd sympathy
Lives on when all beside shall die,
Bereft, but not alone,
The world is still his own ;
The realm of deathless truth
Still breathes immortal youth ;
Sure, though in shuddering dread,
That all is finished,
With purpose fix'd and high
The friend of all mankind must die.
Oh, by those weary hours
Of slowly-ebbing powers ;
By those deep lessons heard
In each expiring word ;
By that unfailing love
Lifting the soul above,
When our last end is nigh,
So teach us, Lord, with thee to die.
J)aII
MY TIMES ARE IN THY HAND
MY times are in thy hand !
I know not what a day
Or e'en an hour may bring to me,
But I am safe while trusting thee,
Though all things fade away.
All weakness, I
On him rely
Who fix'd the earth and spread the starry
sky.
My times are in thy hand f
Pale poverty or wealth,
Corroding care or calm repose,
Spring's balmy breath or winter's snows,
Sickness or buoyant health,
Whate'er betide,
If God provide,
'Tis for the best ; I wish no lot beside,
My times are in thy hand !
Should friendship pure illume
NEWMAN HALL ANNE BRONTE BLEW
181
And strew my path with fairest flowers,
Or should I spend life's dreary hours
In solitude's dark gloom,
Thou art a friend,
Till time shall end
Unchangeably the same ; in thee all beau
ties blend.
Mv times are in thy hand !
Many or few, my days
I leave with thee, this only pray,
That by thy grace, I, every day
Devoting to thy praise,
May ready be
To welcome thee
Whene'er thou com'st to set my spirit free.
My times are in thy hand !
Howe'er those times may end,
Sudden or slow my soul's release,
Midst anguish, frenzy, or in peace,
I 'in safe with Christ my friend.
If he is nigh,
Howe'er I die,
T will be the dawn of heavenly ecstaiy.
My times are in thy hand f
To thee I can intrust
My slumbering clay, till thy command
Bids all the dead before thee ataud,
Awaking from the dust.
Beholding thee,
What bliss 'twill be
With all thy saints to spend eternity !
To spend eternity
In heaven's unclouded light !
From sorrow, sin, and frailty free,
Beholding and resembling thee,
O too transporting sight !
Prospect too fair
For flesh to bear !
Haste ! haste ! my Lord, and soon trans
port me there !
Stnne 25rontc
A PRAYER
MY God (oh, let me call thee mine,
Weak, wretched sinner though I be),
My trembling soul would fain be thine ;
My feeble faith still clings to thee.
Not only for the past I grieve,
The future fills me with dismay ;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
Thy suppliant is a castaway.
I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great ;
But strength and love to thee belong ;
Oh, do not leave me desolate !
I know I owe my all to thee ;
Oh, take the heart I cannot give !
Do Thou my strength my Saviour be,
And make me to thy glory live.
IDilliam
LORD, THY WING OUTSPREAD
O LORD, thy wing outspread,
And us thy flock infold ;
Thy broad wing spread, that covered
Thy mercy-seat of old :
And o'er our nightly roof,
And round our daily path,
Keep watch and ward, and hold aloof
The devil and his wrath.
For thou dost fence onr head,
And shield yea, thou alone
The peasant on his pallet-bed,
The prince upon his throne.
Make then our heart thine ark,
Whereon thy Mystic Dove
May brood, and lighten it, when dark,
With beams of peace and love ;
182
EARLY HYMNODY
That dearer far to thee
Than gold or cedar-shrine
The bodies of thy saints may be,
The souls by thee made thine :
So nevermore be stirr'd
That voice within our heart,
The fearful word that once was heard,
" Up, let us hence depart ! "
Cecil ranceg
THERE IS A GREEN HILL
THERE is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified,
Who died to save us all.
We may not know, we cannot tell
What pains he had to bear,
But we believe it was for us
He hung and suffer'd there.
He died that we might be forgiven,
He died to make us good,
That we might go at last to heaven>
Sav'd by his precious blood.
There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin ;
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven, and let us in.
O dearly, dearly has he lov'd,
And we must love him too,
And trust in his redeeming blood,
And try his works to do.
Cecilia
THE LOST SHEEP
("THE NINETY AND NINE")
THERE were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold ;
But one was out on the hills away,
Far off from the gates of gold,
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the tender Shepherd's care.
" Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine :
Are they not enough for thee ? "
But the Shepherd made answer : " 'T is of
mine
Has wander'd away from me ;
And although the road be rough and steep
J go to the desert to find my sheep."
But none of the ransom'd ever knew
How deep were the waters cross'd,
Nor how dark was the night that the Lord
pass'd through
Ere he found his sheep that was lost.
Out in the desert he heard its cry
Sick and helpless, and ready to die.
" Lord, whence are those blood-drops all
the way,
That mark out the mountain track ? "
" They were shed for one who had gone
astray
Ere the Shepherd could bring him back."
"Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and
torn ? "
"They are pierced to-night by many a
thorn."
But all through the mountains, thunder-
riven,
And up from the rocky steep,
There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,
" Rejoice ! I have found my sheep ! "
And the angels echoed around the throne,
"Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his
own 1 "
BARING-GOULD HAVERGAL
183
CHILD'S EVENING HYMN
Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh,
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky.
Now the darkness gathers,
Stars begin to peep,
Birds and beasts and flowers
Soon will be asleep.
Jesu, give the weary
Calm and sweet repose ;
With thy tenderest blessing
May our eyelids close.
Grant to little children
Visions bright of thee ;
Guard the sailors tossing
On the deep blue sea.
Comfort every sufferer
Watching late in paiii ;
Those who plan some evil
From their sin restrain.
Through the long night-watches
May thine angels spread
Their white wings above me,
Watching round my bed.
When the morning wakens,
Then may I arise
Pure and fresh and sinless
In thy holy eyes.
Glory to the Father,
Glory to the Son,
And to thee, bless'd Spirit,
Whilst all ages run. AMEN.
GAVE MY LIFE FOR THEE
I GAVE my life for thee,
My precious blood I shed
That thou mightst ransom'd be,
And quickeu'd from the dead.
I gave my life for thee ;
What hast thou given for me ?
I spent long years for thee
In weariness and woe,
That an eternity
Of joy thou mightest know.
I spent long years for thee ;
Hast thou spent one for me ?
My Father's home of light,
My rainbow-circled throne,
I left, for earthly night,
For wanderings sad and lone.
I left it all for thee ;
Hast thou left aught for me ?
I suffer'd much for thee,
More than thy tongue may tell
Of bitterest agony,
To rescue thee from hell.
I suffer'd much for thee ;
What canst thou bear for me ?
And I have brought to thee,
Down from my home above,
Salvation full and free,
My pardon and my love.
Great gifts I brought to thee ;
What hast thou brought to me ?
Oh, let thy life be given,
Thy years for him be spent,
World-fetters all be riven,
And joy with suffering blent ;
I gave myself for thee :
Give thou thyself to me ?
II
THE VICTORIAN EPOCH
>ERIOD OF TENNYSON, ARNOLD, BROWNING, ROSSETTI, AND SWINBURNE)
DEATH OF WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: APRIL 23, 1850
ALFRED TENNYSON APPOINTED LAUREATE: NOVEMBER 21, 1850
PRELUDE
ENGLAND ! since Shakespeare died no loftier day
For thee than lights herewith a century's goal,
Nor statelier exit of heroic soul
Conjoined with soul heroic, nor a lay
Excelling theirs who made renowned thy sway
Even as they heard the billows which outroll
Thine ancient sea, and left their joy and dole
In song, and on the strand their mantles gray.
Star-rayed with fame thine Abbey windows loom
Above his dust whom the Venetian barge
Bore to the main ; who passed the two-fold marge
To slumber in thy keeping, yet make room
For the great Laurif er, whose chanting large
And sweet shall last until our tongue's far doom.
E. C. S.
THE VICTORIAN EPOCH
(PERIOD OF TENNYSON, ARNOLD, BROWNING, ROSSETTI, AND SWINBURNE)
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
frcbcticft
THIRTY-FIRST OF MAY
LWAKE ! the crimson dawn is glowing,
And blissful breath of Morn
From golden seas is earthward flowing
Thro* mountain-peaks forlorn ;
Twixt the tall roses, and the jasmines near,
That darkly hover in the twilight air,
see the glory streaming, and I hear
The sweet wind whispering like a messen
ger.
'is time to sing ! the Spirits of Spring
Go softly by mine ear,
id out of Fairyland they bring
Glad tidings to me here ;
1 is time to sing ! now is the pride of
Youth
Pluming the woods, and the first rose ap
pears,
And Summer from the chambers of the
South
Is coming up to wipe away all tears.
;y bring glad tidings from afar
Of Her that cometh after
To fill the earth, to light the air,
With music and with laughter ;
Ev'n now she leaneth forward, as she stands,
And her fire-wing'd horses, shod with
gold,
Stream, like a sunrise, from before her
hands,
And thro' the Eastern gates her wheels
are roll'd.
'T is time to sing the woodlands ring
New carols day by day ;
The wild birds of the islands sing
Whence they have flown away ;
'T is time to sing : the nightingale is
come,
And 'mid the laurels chants he all night
long,
And bids the leaves be still, the winds be
dumb,
And like the starlight flashes forth his
song.
Immortal Beauty from above,
Like sunlight breath'd on cloud,
Touches the weary soul with love,
And hath unwound the shroud
Of buried Nature till she looks again
Fresh in infantine smiles and childish
tears,
And o'er the rugged hearts of aeed men
Sheds the pure dew of Youth s delicious
years.
The heart of the awaken'd Earth
Breathes odorous ecstasy ;
Let ours beat time unto her mirth,
And hymn her jubilee !
The glory of the Universal Soul
Ascends from mountain-tops, and lowly
flowers,
The mighty pulses throbbing through the
Whole
Call unto us for answering life in ours.
i88
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Arise ! young Queen of forests green,
A path was strewn for thee
With hyacinth, and gold bells atween,
And red anemone ;
Arise ! young Queen of beauty and delight,
Lift up in this fair land thine happy eyes ;
The valleys yearn, and gardens for thy
sight,
But chief this heart that prays for thee
with sighs.
How oft into the opening blue
I look'd up wistfully,
In hope to see thee wafted thro'
Bright rifts of stormy sky ;
Many gray moms, sad nights, and weary
days,
Without thy golden smile my heart was
dying ;
Oh ! in the valleys let me see thy face,
And thy loose locks adown the wood-
walks flying.
Come, with thy flowers, and silver showers,
Thy rainbows, and thy light ;
Fold in thy robe the naked Hours,
And fill them with thy might ;
Though less I seek thee for the loveliness
Thou laughest from thee over land and
sea,
Than for the hues wherein gay Fancies dress
My drooping spirit at the sight of thee.
Come, with thy voice of thousand joys,
Thy leaves, and fluttering wings ;
Come with thy breezes, and the noise
Of rivulets and of springs ;
Though less I seek thee for thine harmo
nies
Of winds and waters, and thy songs
divine,
Than for that Angel that within me lies,
And makes glad music echoing unto
thine.
O Gardens blossoming anew !
O Rivers, and fresh Rills !
O Mountains in your mantles blue !
O dales of daffodils !
What ye can do no mortal spirit can,
Ye have a strength within we cannot
borrow,
Blessed are ye beyond the heart of Man,
Your Joy, your Love, your Life beyond
all Sorrow !
THE BLACKBIRD
How sweet the harmonies of afternoon *
The Blackbird sings along the sunny
breeze
His ancient song of leaves, and summer
boon ;
Rich breath of hayfields streams thro*
whispering trees ;
And birds of morning trim their bustling
wings,
And listen fondly while the Blackbird
sings.
How soft the lovelight of the West re^
poses
On this green valley's cheery solitude,
On the trim cottage with its screen of
roses,
On the gray belfry with its ivy hood,
And murmuring mill-race, and the wheel
that flings
Its bubbling freshness while the Black
bird sings.
The very dial on the village church
Seems as 'twere dreaming in a dozy
rest ;
The scribbled benches underneath the porch
Bask in the kindly welcome of the West ;
But the broad casements of the old Three
Kings
Blaze like a furnace while the Blackbird
sings.
And there beneath the immemorial elm
Three rosy revellers round a table sit,
And thro' gray clouds give laws unto the
realm,
Curse good and great, but worship their
own wit,
And roar of fights, and fairs, and junket
ings,
Corn, colts, and curs the while the Black
bird sings.
Before her home, in her accustom'd seat.
The tidy Grandam spins beneath the
shade
Of the old honeysuckle, at her feet
The dreaming pug, and purring tabby
laid ;
To her low chair a little maiden clings,
And spells in silence while the Blackbird
sings.
FREDERICK TENNYSON
189
Sometimes the shadow of a lazy cloud
Breathes o'er the hamlet with its gardens
green,
While the far fields with sunlight overflow'd
Like golden shores of Fairyland are seen ;
Again, the sunshine on the shadow springs,
And fires the thicket where the Blackbird
sings.
The woods, the lawn, the peaked Manor-
house,
With its peach-cover'd walls, and rookery
loud,
The trim, quaint garden alleys, screened
with boughs,
The lion-headed gates, so grim and proud,
The mossy fountain with its murmurings,
I Lie in warm sunshine while the Blackbird
sings.
The ring of silver voices, and the sheen
Of festal garments and my Lady
streams
With her gay court across the garden green ;
Some laugh, and dance, some whisper
their love-dreams ;
And one calls for a little page ; he strings
Her lute beside her while the Blackbird
sings.
A little while and lo ! the charm is heard,
A youth, whose life has been all Summer,
steals
Forth from the noisy guests around the
board,
Creeps by her softly ; at her footstool
kneels ;
when she pauses, murmurs tender
things
her fond ear while the Blackbird
sings.
The smoke-wreaths from the chimneys curl
up higher,
And dizzy things of eve begin to float
Upon the light ; the breeze begins to tire ;
Half way to sunset with a drowsy note
The ancient clock from out the valley
swings ;
Grandam nods and still the Black
bird sings.
IT shouts and laughter from the farmstead
peal,
Where the great stack is piling in the sun ;
Thro' narrow gates o'erladen wagons peel,
And barking curs into the tumult run ;
While the inconstant wind bears off, and
brings
The merry tempest and the Blackbird
sings.
On the high wold the last look of the sun
Burns, like a beacon, over dale and stream;
The shouts have ceased, the laughter and
the fun ;
The Grandam sleeps, and peaceful be her
dream ;
Only a hammer on an anvil rings ;
The day is dying still the Blackbird sings.
Now the good Vicar passes from his gate
Serene, with long white hair ; and in his
eye
Burns the clear spirit that hath conquer'd
Fate,
And felt the wings of immortality ;
His heart is throng'd with great imaginings,
And tender mercies while the Blackbird
sings.
Down by the brook he bends his steps, and
thro'
A lowly wicket ; and at last he stands
Awful beside the bed of one who grew
From boyhood with him who with
lifted hands
And eyes, seems listening to far welcoming*,
And sweeter music than the Blackbird sings.
Two golden stars, like tokens from the
Blest,
Strike on his dim orbs from the setting
sun ;
His sinking hands seem pointing to the
West;
He smiles as though he said "Thy will
be done : "
His eyes, they see not those illuminings ;
His ears, they hear not what the Blackbird
sings.
FROM "NIOBE"
I TOO remember, in the after years,
The long-hair'd Niobe, when she was old,
Sitting alone, without the city gates,
Upon the ground ; alone she sat, and
.mourn'd.
Her watchers, mindful of her royal state,
190
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Her widowhood, and sorrows, follow'd her
Far off, when she went forth, to be alone
In lonely places ; and at set of sun
They won her back by some fond phantasy,
By telling her some tale of the gone days
Of her dear lost ones, promising to show her
Some faded garland, or some broken toy,
Dusty and dim, which they had found, or
feign'd
To have found, some plaything of their
infant hours.
Within the echoes of a ruin'd court
She sat and mourn'd, with her lamenting
voice,
Melodious in sorrow, like the sound
Of funeral hymns ; for in her youth she sang
Along the myrtle valleys in the spring,
Plucking the fresh pinks and the hyacinths,
With her fair troop of girls, who answer'd
her
Silverly sweet, so that the lovely tribe
Were Nature's matchless treble to the last
Delicious pipe, pure, warbling, dewy clear.
In summer and in winter, that lorn voice
Went up, like the struck spirit of this world,
Making the starry roof of heaven tremble
With her lament, and agony, and all
The crowned Gods in their high tabernacles
Sigh unawares, and think upon their deeds.
Her guardians let her wander at her will,
For all could weep for her ; had she not
been
The first and fairest of that sunny land,
And bless'd with all things ; doubly crowii'd
with power
And beauty, doubly now discrown'd and
fallen ?
Oh ! none would harm her, only she herself ;
And chiefly then when they would hold her
back,
And sue her to take comfort in her home,
Or in the bridal chambers of her youth,
Or in the old gardens, once her joy and
pride,
Or the rose-bowers along the river-shore
She lov'd of old, now silent and forsaken.
For then she fled away, as though in fear,
As if she saw the spectres of her hours
Of joyaunce pass before her in the shapes
Of her belov'd ones. But most she chose
Waste places, where the moss and lichen
crawl'd,
And the wild ivy flutter'd, and the rains
Wept thro' the roofless ruins, and all
seem'd
To mourn in symbols, and to answer to her,
Showing her outward that she was within.
The unregarding multitude pass'd on,
Because her woe was a familiar sight.
But some there were that shut their ears
and fled,
And they were childless ; the rose-lipp'd
and young
Felt that imperial voice and desolate
Strike cold into their hearts ; children at
play
Were smit with sudden silence, with their
toys
Clutch'd in their hands, forgetful of the
game.
Aged she was, yet beautiful in age.
Her beauty, thro' the cloud of years and
grief,
Shone as a wintry sun ; she never smil'd,
Save when a darkness pass'd across the sun,
And blotted out from her entranced eyes
Disastrous shapes that rode upon his disk,
Tyrannous visions, armed presences ;
And then she sigh'd and lifted up her head,
And shed a few warm tears. But when he
rose,
And her sad eyes unclos'd before his beams,
She started up with terrors in her look,
That wither'd up all pity in affright,
And ran about, like one with Furies torn,
And rent her hair, and madly threaten'd
Heaven,
And call'd for retribution on the Gods,
Crying, " O save me from Him, He is
there ;
Oh, let me wear my little span of life.
I see Him in the centre of the sun ;
His face is black with wrath ! thou angry
God,
I am a worthless thing, a childless mother,,
Widow'd and wasted, old and comfortless,
But still I am alive ; wouldst thou take
all?
Thou who hast snatch'd my hopes and m^
delights,
Thou who hast kill'd my children, wouldst
thou take
The little remnant of my days of sorrow,
Which the sharp winds of the first winter
days,
Or the first night of frost, may give unto
thee ?
For never shall I seek again that home
Where they are not ; cold, cold shall be the
hearth
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
191
Where they were gather'd, cold as is my
heart !
Oh ! if my living lot be bitterness,
T is sweeter than to think, that, if I go
Down to the dust, then I shall think no more
Of them I lov'd and lost, the thoughts of
whom
Are all my being, and shall speak no more,
In answer to their voices in my heart,
As though it were mine ear, rewording all
Their innocent delights, and fleeting pains,
Their infant fondnesses, their little wants,
And simple words. Oh ! while I am, I
dream
Of those who are not ; thus my anguish
grows
My solace, as the salt surf of the seas
Clothes the sharp crags with beauty." Then
her mood
Would veer to madness, like a wind/
change
That brings up thunder, and she rais'd her
voice,
Crying, " And yet they are not, they who
were,
And never more
dreams ! "
And, suddenly becoming motionless,
The bright hue from her cheeks and fore*
head pass'd,
And, full of awful resignation, fixing
Her large undazzled orbs upon the sun,
She shriek'd, " Strike, God, thou canst not
harm me more I "
shall be! accursed
ennpon umnr
THE LION'S SKELETON
How long, O lion, hast thou fleshless lain ?
What rapt thy fierce and thirsty eyes
away ?
First came the vulture : worms, heat, wind,
and rain
Ensued, and ardors of the tropic day.
I know not if they spar'd it thee how
long
The canker sate within thy monstrous
mane,
Till it fell piecemeal, and bestrew'd the
plain,
Or, shredded by the storming sands, was
flung
Again to earth ; but now thine ample front,
Whereon the great frowns gather'd, is laid
bare ;
The thunders of thy throat, which erst
were wont
lo scare the desert, are no longer there ;
Thy claws remain, but worms, wind, rain,
and heat
Have sifted out the substance of thy feet.
THE VACANT CAGE
OUR little bird in his full day of health
With his gold-coated beauty made us glad,
And when disease approach'd with cruel
stealth,
A sadder interest our smiles forbad.
How oft we watch 'd him, when the night
hours came,
His poor head buried near his bursting
heart,
Which beat within a puffd and troubled
frame ;
But he has gone at last, and play M his part :
The seed-glass, slighted by his sickening
taste,
The little moulted feathers, saffron-tipp'd,
The fountain, where his fever'd bill was
dipp'd,
The perches, which his failing feet embraced,
All these remain not even his bath re-
mov'd
But where 's the spray and flutter that we
lov'd ?
THE LACHRYMATORY
FROM out the grave of one whose budding
years
Were cropp'd by death, when Rome was in
her prime,
I brought the phial of his kinsman's tears,
There placed, as was the wont of ancient
time;
Round me, that night, in meads of aspho
del,
The souls of the early dead did come and
Drawn by that flask of grief, as by a
That long-imprison'd shower of human woe
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
As round Ulysses, for the draught of blood,
The heroes throng'd, those spirits flock'd
to me,
Where, lonely, with that charm of tears, I
stood ;
Two, most of all, my dreaming eyes did see ;
The young Marcellus, young, but great and
good,
And Tully's daughter, mourn'd so tenderly.
THE BUOY-BELL
How like the leper, with his own sad cry
Enforcing his own solitude, it tolls !
That lonely bell set in the rushing shoals,
To warn us from the place of jeopardy S
O friend of man ! sore-vex'd by ocean's
power,
The changing tides wash o'er thee day by
day ;
Thy trembling mouth is fill'd with bitter
spray,
Yet still thou ringest on from hour to hour ;
High is thy mission, though thy lot is
wild
To be in danger's realm a guardian sound ;
In seamen's dreams a pleasant part to bear,
And earn their blessing as the year goes
round,
And strike the key-note of each grateful
prayer,
Breath 'd in their distant homes by wife or
child !
THE FOREST GLADE
As one dark morn I trod a forest glade,
A sunbeam enter'd at the further end,
And ran to meet me thro' the yielding
shade
As one, who in the distance sees a friend,
And, smiling, hurries to him ; but mine
eyes,
Bewilder'd by the change from dark to
bright,
Received the greeting with a quick sur
prise
At first, and then with tears of pure de
light ;
For sad my thoughts had been the tem
pest's wrath
Had gloom 'd the night, and made the
morrow gray ;
That heavenly guidance humble sorrow
hath,
Had turn'd my feet into that forest-way,
Just when His morning light came down
the path,
Among the lonely woods at early day.
THE LATTICE AT SUNRISE
As on my bed at dawn I mus'd and pray'd>
I saw my lattice prank'd upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds
withal
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade ;
"Thanks be to heaven," in happy mood I
said,
" What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than the fair glory from the East hath
made ?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of
all,
To bid us feel and see ! we are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea ;
His lustre pierceth through the midnight
glooms
And, at prime hour, behold ! He follows
me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms."
THE ROOKERY
METHOUGHT, as I beheld the rookery pass
Homeward at dusk upon the rising wind,
How every heart in that close-flying mass
Was well befriended by the Almighty
mind :
He marks each sable wing that soars or
drops,
He sees them forth at morning to their
fare,
He sets them floating on His evening air,
He sends them home to rest on the tree-
tops ;
And when through umber'd leaves the
night-winds pour,
With lusty impulse rocking all the grove,
The stress is measur'd by an eye of love,
No root is burst, though all the branches
roar ;
And, in the morning, cheerly as before,
The dark clan talks, the social instincts
move.
CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER
'93
ORION
How oft I 've watch'd thee from the gar
den croft,
[n silence, when the busy day was done,
shining with wondrous brilliancy aloft,
4 - J flickering like a casement 'gainst the
sun !
seen thee soar from out some snowy
cloud,
Which held the frozen breath of land and
sea,
Tet broke and sever 'd as the wind grew
loud
lut earth-bound winds could not dismem
ber thee,
Tor shake thy frame of jewels ; I have
guess 'd
it thy strange shape and function, haply
felt
charm of that old myth about thy belt
sword ; but, most, my spirit was pos-
sess'd
His great Presence, Who is never far
!Yom his light-bearers, whether man or star.
TO THE GOSSAMER-LIGHT
: gleam, that ridest on the gossa
mer !
[ow oft I see thee, with thy wavering lance,
i'ilt at the midges in their evening dance,
gentle joust set on by summer air !
[ow oft I watch thee from my garden-
chair !
Lnd, failing that, I search the lawns and
bowers,
find thee floating o'er the fruits and
flowers,
id doing thy sweet work in silence there,
lou art the poet's darling, ever sought
the fair garden or the breezy mead ;
wind dismounts thee not ; thy buoyant
thread
Is as the sonnet, poising one bright thought,
That moves but does not vanish : borne
along
Like light, a golden drift through all
the song !
LETTY'S GLOBE
WHEN Letty had scarce pass'd her third
glad year,
And her young, artless words began to
flow,
One day we gave the child a color'd
sphere
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and
know,
By tint and outline, all its sea and land.
She patted all the world ; old empires
peep'd
Between her baby fingers ; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers. How she
leap'd,
And laugh'd and prattled in her world
wide bliss ;
But when we turu'd her sweet unlearned
eye
On our own isle, she rais'd a joyous cry,
" Oh ! yes, I see it, Letty's home is there ! "
And, while she hid all England with a
kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair I
HER FIRST-BORN
IT was her first sweet child, her heart's de
light :
And, though we all foresaw his early doom,
We kept the fearful secret out of sight ;
We saw the canker, but she kins'd the
bloom.
And yet it might not be : we could not
brook
To vex her happy heart with vague alarms,
To blanch with tear her fond intrepid
look,
Or send a thrill through those encircling
arms.
She smil'd upon him, waking or at rest :
She could not dream her little child would
die:
She toss'd him fondly with an upward
eye:
She seem'd as buoyant as a summer spray,
That dances with a blossom on its breast,
Nor knows how soon it will be borne away
194
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
StlfrcD, Slorfc rnnpon
THE DESERTED HOUSE
LIFE and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide :
Careless tenants they !
All within is dark as night :
In the windows is no light ;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door, the shutters close,
Or thro' the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.
Come away : no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.
Come away : for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell ;
But in a city glorious
A great and distant city have bought
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have stay'd with us !
THE LOTOS-EATERS
" COURAGE ! " he said, and pointed toward
the land,
" This mounting wave will roll us shoreward
soon."
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All round the coast the languid air did
swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ;
And like a downward smoke, the slender
stream
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall
did seem.
A land of streams ! some, like a downward
smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows
broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner laud : far off, three uioun
tain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush'd : and, dew'd with show
ery drops,
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven
copse.
The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the red West : thro' mountain clefts the
dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding
vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale ;
A land where all things always seem'd the
same !
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild -eyed melancholy Lotos -eaters
Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they
gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores ; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave ;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did
make.
They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore ;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave ; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, " We will return no
more ; "
And all at once they sang, " Our island home
Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longei
roam."
CHORIC SONG
I
THERE is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
'95
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass ;
Music th:it gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes ;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from
the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-lea v'd flowers
weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs
in sleep.
II
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consum'd with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weari
ness?
All things have rest : why should we toil
alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
I Still from one sorrow to another thrown :
Nor never fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
[Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm ;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
" There is no joy but calm ! "
I Why should we only toil, the roof and crown
of things ?
Ill
! in the middle of the wood,
ic folded leaf is wooed from out the bud
r ith winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow
. Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo ! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
IV
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life ; ah, why
Should life all labor be ?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last ?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil ? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave ?
All things have rest, and ripeu toward the
grave
In silence ; ripen, fall, and cease :
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or
dreamful ease.
How sweet it were, hearing the downward
stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream !
To dream and dream, like yonder amber
light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the
height ;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech ;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray ;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melan
choly ;
To muse and brood and live again in mem
ory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn
of brass !
VI
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears : but all hath suffered
change :
For surely now our household hearths are
cold:
Our sons inherit us : our looks are strange :
And we should come like ghosts to trouble
joy.
Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel
sings
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our great deeds, as half-forgottel
things.
Is there confusion in the little isle ?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile :
'T is hard to settle order once apain.
There is confusion worse than death.
196
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labor unto aged breath,
Soretask to hearts worn out by many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the
pilot-stars.
VII
But propp'd on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blow
ing lowly)
With half-dropp'd eyelid still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing
slowly
His waters from the purple hill
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twin'd
vine
To watch the emerald-color'd water falling
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath di
vine !
Only te hear and see the far-off sparkling
brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out be
neath the pine.
VIII
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak :
The Lotos blows by ^e very winding creek :
All day the wind breathes low with mel
lower tone :
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yel
low Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of mo
tion we,
Roll'd to starboard, rolPd to larboard, when
the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his
foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an
equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie
reclin'd
On the hills like Gods together, careless of
mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the
bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the
clouds are lightly curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with the
gleaming world :
Where they smile in secret, looking over
wasted lauds,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake,
roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and
sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred
in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient
tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words
are strong ;
Chanted from an ill-us'd race of men that
cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest witl
enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and
wine and oil ;
Till they perish and they suffer some,
't is whisper'd down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian
valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of
asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than
toil, the shore
Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind
and wave and oar ;
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not
wander more.
ULYSSES
IT little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren
crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know
not me.
I cannot rest from travel : I will drink
Life to the lees : all times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with
those
That lov'd me, and alone ; on shore, and
when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vex'd the dim sea. I am become a name ;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known : cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, govern
ments,
Myself not least, but honor'd of them all ;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met ;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
'97
Gleams that uutravell'd world, whose mar
gin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use !
As tho' to breathe were life. Life pil'd on
life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains : but every hour is sav'd
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things ; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard
myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle
Well-lov'd of me, discerning to fulfil
This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to iny household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I
mine.
There lies the port ; the vessel puffs her
sail :
There gloom the dark broad seas. My
mariners,
Is that have toil'd, and wrought, and
thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
thunder and the sunshine, and oppos'd
hearts, free foreheads you and I are
old;
Id age hath yet his honor and his toil ;
ath closes all ; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks :
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs :
the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my
friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
1'usli cff, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows ; for my purpose holds
(To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
)f all the western stars, until I die.
t may be that the gulfs will wash us down :
i may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
V.nd see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho* much is taken, much abides ; and tbo*
We are not now that strength which
days
Mov'd earth and heaven, that which we
are, we are :
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in
will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield,
SIR GALAHAD
MY good blade carves the casques of men,
My tough lance thrusteth sure,
My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure.
The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
The hard brands shiver on the steel,
The splinter'd spear-shafts crack and fly,
The horse and rider reel :
They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
And when the tide of combat stands,
Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
How sweet are looks that ladies bend
On whom their favors fall !
For them I battle till the end,
To save from shame and thrall :
But all my heart is drawn above,
My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine :
I never felt the kiss of love,
Nor maiden's hand in mine.
More bounteous aspects on me beam,
Me mightier transports move and thrill ;
So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
A* virgin heart in work and will.
When down the stormy crescent goes,
A light before me swims,
Between dark stems the forest glows,
I hear a noise of hymns :
Then by some secret shrine I ride ;
I hear a voice, but none are there ;
The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
The tapers burning fair.
Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth,
The silver vessels sparkle clean,
The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
And solemn chaitnts resound between.
Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark ;
I Isap on board : nc helmsman steers :
I float till all is dark.
198
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
A gentle sound, an awful light !
Three angels bear the holy Grail :
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision ! blood of God !
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.
When on my goodly charger borne
Thro' dreaming towns I go,
The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
The streets are dumb with snow.
The tempest crackles on the leads,
And, ringing, springs from brand and
mail ;
But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
And gilds the driving hail.
I leave the plain, I climb the height ;
No branchy thicket shelter yields ;
But blessed forms in whistling storms
Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
A maiden knight to me is given
Such hope, I know not fear ;
I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
That often meet me here.
I muse on joy that will not cease,
Pure spaces cloth'd in living beams,
Pure lilies of eternal peace,
Whose od.ors haunt my dreams ;
And, stricken by an angel's hand,
This mortal armor that I wear,
This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
Are touch'd, are turn'd to finest air.
The clouds are broken in the sky, t
And thro' the mountain-walls
A rolling organ-harmony
Swells up, and shakes and falls.
Then move the trees, the copses nod,
Wings flutter, voices hover clear :
" O just and faithful knight of God !
Ride on ! the prize is near."
So pass I hostel, hall, and grange ;
By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide,
Until I find the holy Grail.
SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN
GUINEVERE
souls that balance joy and pain,
With tears and smiles from heaven again
The maiden Spring upon the plain
Came in a sun-lit fall of rain.
In crystal vapor everywhere
Blue isles of heaven laugh'd between,
And far, in forest-deeps unseen,
The topmost elm-tree gather'd green
From draughts of balmy air.
Sometimes the linnet pip'd his song :
Sometimes the throstle whistled strong
Sometimes the sparhawk, wheel'd along,
Hush'd all the groves from fear of wrong \
By grassy capes with fuller sound
In curves the yellowing river ran,
And drooping chestnut-buds began
To spread into the perfect fan,
Above the teeming ground.
Then, in the boyhood of the year,
Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere
Rode thro' the coverts of the deer,
With blissful treble ringing clear.
She seem'd a part of joyous Spring ;
A gown of grass-green silk she wore,
Buckled with golden clasps before ;
A light-green tuft of plumes she bore
Clos'd in a golden ring.
Now on some twisted ivy-net,
Now by some tinkling rivulet,
In mosses mix'd with violet
Her cream-white mule his pastern set :
And fleeter now she skimm'd the plains
Than she whose elfin prancer springs
By night to eery warblings,
When all the glimmering moorland rings
With jingling bridle-reins.
As fast she fled thro' sun and shade,
The happy winds upon her play'd,
Blowing the ringlet from the braid :
She look'd so lovely, as she sway'd
The rein with dainty finger-tips,
A man had given all other bliss,
And all his worldly worth for this.
To waste his whole heart in one kiss
Upon her perfect lips.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK
BREAK, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea !
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
199
well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play !
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay !
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill ;
.6ut O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still !
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea !
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
SONGS FROM "THE PRINCESS"
AS THRO* THE LAND
As thro' the land at eve we went,
And pluck'd the ripen'd ears,
We fell out, my wife and I,
Oh, we fell out I know not why,
And kiss'd again with tears.
And blessings on the falling out
That all the more endears,
When we fall out with those we love
And kiss again with tears !
For when we came where lies the child
We lost in other years,
There above the little grave,
Oh, there above the little grave,
We kiss'd again with tears.
SWEET AND LOW
i
SWEET and low, sweet and low,
Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,
Wind of the western sea !
>ver the rolling waters go,
/ome from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me ;
f hile my little one, while my pretty one,
sleeps.
-'tyfrO
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,
Father will come to thee soon ;
Father will come to his babe in the nest;
Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon :
Bleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one,
sleep.
BUGLE SONG
THE splendor falls on castle walla
And snowy summits old in story :
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in K \t tT v.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes Hying,
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O hark, O hear ! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going !
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing !
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying :
Blow, bugle ; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river :
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes fly ing.
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying,
dying.
TEARS, IDLE TEARS
TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they
mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the under
world,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge ;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer
dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dyine eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering
square ;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remember'd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others ; deep as 1
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret ;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
20O
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
THY VOICE IS HEARD
THY voice is heard thro' rolling drums
That beat to battle where he stands ;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands :
A moment, while the trumpets blow,
He sees his brood about thy knee ;
The next, like fire he meets the foe,
And strikes him dead for thine and thee.
ASK ME NO MORE
ASK me no more : the moon may draw the
sea ;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and
take the shape
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape ;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee ?
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more : what answer should I
give ?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye :
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee
die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live ;
Ask me no more.
Ask me no more : thy fate and mine are
seal'd :
I strove against the stream and all in
vain :
Let the great river take me to the main :
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield ;
Ask me no more.
ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE
DUKE OF WELLINGTON
BURY the Great Duke
With an empire's lamentation,
Let us bury the Great Duke
To the noise of the mourning of a mighty
nation,
Mourning when their leaders fall,
Warriors carry the warrior's pall,
And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall.
Where shall we lay the man whom we de
plore ?
Here, in streaming London's central roar.
Let the sound of those he wrought for,
And the feet of those he fought for,
Echo round his bones for evermore.
Ill
Lead out the pageant : sad
As fits an universal woe,
Let the long long procession go,
And let the sorrowing crowd about it groiVj
And let the mournful martial music blow ;
The last great Englishman is low.
IV
Mourn, for to us \e seems the last,
Remembering all his greatness in the Past.
No more in soldier fashion will he greet
With lifted hand the gazer in the street.
O friends, our chief state-oracle is mute :
Mourn for the man of long-enduring blood,
The statesman-warrior, moderate, resolute,
Whole in himself, a common good.
Mourn for the man of amplest influence,
Yet clearest of ambitious crime,
Our greatest yet with least pretence,
Great in council and great in war,
Foremost captain of his time,
Rich in saving common-sense,
And, as the greatest only are,
In his simplicity sublime.
O good gray head which all men knew,
O voice from which their omens all men
drew,
O iron nerve to true occasion true,
O fall'n at length that tower of strength
Which stood four-square to all the winds
that blew !
Such was he whom we deplore.
The long self-sacrifice of life is o'er.
The great World-victor's victor will be seep
no more.
All is over and done :
Render thanks to the Giver,
England, for thy son.
Let the bell be toll'd.
Render thanks to the Giver,
And render him to the mould.
Under the cross of gold
That shines over city and river,
There he shall rest for ever
Among the wise and the bold.
Let the bell be toll'd :
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
201
And a reverent people behold
The towering car, the sable steeds :
Bright let it be with its blazon'd deeds,
Dark in its funeral fold.
Let the bell be toll'd :
And a deeper knell in the heart be knoll'd ;
And the sound of the sorrowing anthem
roll'd
Thro' the dome of the golden cross ;
And the volleying cannon thunder his loss ;
He knew their voices of old.
For many a time in many a clime
His captain's-ear has heard them boom
Bellowing victory, bellowing doom :
When he with those deep voices wrought,
Guarding realms and kings from shame ;
With those deep. voices our dead captain
taught
The tyrant, and asserts his claim
In that dread sound to the great name,
Which he has worn so pure of blame,
In praise and in dispraise the same,
A man of well-attemper'd frame.
O civic mnse, to such a name,
To such a name for ages long,
To such a name,
Preserve a broad approach of fame,
And ever-echoing avenues of song.
VI
Who is he that cometh, like an honor'd
guest,
With banner and with music, with soldier
and with priest,
With a nation weeping, and breaking on my
rest? "
Mighty Seaman, this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea.
Thine island loves thee well, thou famous
man,
The greatest sailor since our world began.
Now, to the roll of muffled drums,
To thee the greatest soldier comes ;
For this is he
Was great by land as thou by sea ;
His foes were thine ; he kept us free ;
O give him welcome, this is he
Worthy of our gorgeous rites,
And worthy to be laid by thee ;
For this is England's greatest son,
He that gain'd a hundred fights,
Nor ever lost an English gun ;
This is he that far away
Against the myriads of Assaye
Clash'd with his fiery few and won ;
And underneath another sun,
Warring on a later day,
Round affrighted Lisbon drew
The treble works, the vast designs
Of his labor VI rampart lines,
Where he greatly stood at ba^,
Whence he issued forth anew,
And ever great and greater grew,
Beating from the wasted vines
Back to France her banded swarms,
Back to France with countless blows,
Till o'er the hills her eagles flew
Beyond the Pyrenean pines,
Follow'd up in valley and glen
With blare of bugle, clamor of men,
Roll of cannon and clash of arms,
And England pouring on her foes.
Such a war had such a close.
Again their ravening eagle row
In anger, wheel'd on Europe-shadowing
wings,
And barking for the thrones of kings ;
Till one that sought but Duty's iron crown
On that loud sabbath shook the spoiler
down ;
A day of onsets of despair I
Dash'd on every rocky square
Their surging charges foam'd themselves
away ;
Last, the Prussian trumpet blew ;
Thro' the long-tormented air
Heaven flash'd a sudden jubilant ray,
And down we swept and charged and over
threw.
So great a soldier taught us there,
What long-enduring hearts could do
In that world-earthquake, Waterloo !
Mighty Seaman, tender and true,
And pure as he from taint of craven gnila,
O saviour of the silver-coasted isle,
O shaker of the Baltic and the Nile,
If aught of things that here befall
Touch a spirit among things divine,
If love of country move thee there at all,
Be glad, because his bones are laid by thine !
And thro' the centuries let a people's voice
In full acclaim,
A people's voice,
The proof and echo of all human fame,
A people's voice, when they rejoice
At civic revel Mid pomp and game,
Attest their great commander s claim
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him.
Eternal honor to his name.
202
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
VII
A people's voice ! we are a people yet.
Tho' all men else their nobler dreams for
get*
Confus'd by brainless mobs and lawless
Powers ;
Thank Him who isl'd us here, and roughly
set
His Briton in blown seas and storming
showers,
We have a voice, with which to pay the
debt
Of boundless love and reverence and regret
To those great men who fought, and kept
it ours.
And keep it ours, O God, from brute con
trol ;
O Statesmen, guard us, guard the eye, the
soul
Of Europe, keep our noble England whole,
And save the one true seed of freedom sown
Betwixt a people and their ancient throne,
That sober freedom out of which there
springs
Our loyal passion for our temperate kings ;
For, saving that, ye help to save mankind
Till public wrong be crumbled into dust,
And drill the raw world for the march of
mind,
Till crowds at length be sane and crowns
be just.
But wink no more in slothful overtrust.
Remember him who led your hosts ;
He bade you guard the sacred coasts.
Your cannons moulder on the seaward wall ;
His voice is silent in your council-hall
For ever ; and whatever tempests lour
For ever silent ; even if they broke
In thunder, silent ; yet remember all
He spoke among you, and the Man who
spoke ;
Who never sold the truth to serve the hour,
Nor palter'd with Eternal God for power ;
Who let the turbid streams of rumor flow
Thro' either babbling world of high and low ;
Whose life was work, whose language rife
With rugged maxims hewn from life ;
Who never spoke against a foe ;
Whose eighty winters freeze with one re
buke
All great self-seekers trampling on the
right :
Truth -teller was our England's Alfred
nam'd ;
Truth-lover was our English Duke ;
Whatever record leap to light
He never shall be sham'd.
VIII
Lo, the leader in these glorious wars
Now to glorious burial slowly borne,
Follow'd by the brave of other lands,
He, on whom from both her open hands
Lavish Honor shower'd all her stars,
And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.
Yea, let all good things await
Him who cares not to be great,
But as he saves or serves the state.
Not once or twice in our rough island-story,
The path of duty was the way to glory :
He that walks it, only thirsting
For the right, and learns to deaden
Love of self, before his journey closes,
He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
Into glossy purples, which outredden
All voluptuous garden-roses.
Not once or twice in our fair island-story,
The path of duty was the way to glory :
He, that ever following her commands,
On with toil of heart and knees and hands,
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has
won
His path upward, and prevail'd,
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scal'd
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God Himself is moon and
sun.
Such was he : his work is done.
But while the races of mankind endure,
Let his great example stand
Colossal, seen of every land,
And keep the soldier firm, the statesman
pure :
Till in all lands and thro' all human story
The path of duty be the way to glory :
And let the land whose hearths he sav'ct
from shame
For many and many an age proclaim
At civic revel and pomp and game,
And when the long-illumin'd cities flame.
Their ever-loyal iron leader's fame,
With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,
Eternal honor to his name.
IX
Peace, his triumph will be sung
By some yet unmoulded tongue
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
203
Far on in summers that we shall .not see :
Peace, it is a day of pain
For one about whose patriarchal knee
Late the little children clung :
O peace, it is a day of pain
For one, upon whose hand and heart and
brain
Once the weight and fate of Europe hung.
Ours the pain, be his the gain !
More than is of man's degree
Must be with us, watching here
At this, our great solemnity.
Whom we see not we revere ;
We revere, and we refrain
From talk of battles loud and vain,
And brawling memories all too free
For such a wise humility
As befits a solemn fane :
We revere, and while we hear
The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward eternity,
Uplifted high in heart and hope are we,
Until we doubt not that for one so true
There must be other nobler work to do
Than when he fought at Waterloo,
And victor he must ever be.
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will ;
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads
roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul ?
On God and Godlike men we build our
trust.
Hush, the Dead March wails in the people's
ears :
The dark crowd moves, and there are sobs
and tears :
The black earth yawns : the mortal disap
pears ;
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust ;
He is gone who seem'd so great.
Gone ; but nothing can bereave him
Of the force he made his own
Being here, and we believe him
Something far advanced in State,
And that he wears a truer crown
Than any wreath that man can weave him.
Speak no more of his renown,
Lay your earthly fancies down,
And in the vast cathedral leave him,
God accept him, Christ receive him.
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT
BRIGADE
league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Forward, the Light Brigade I
Charge for the guns ! " he said :
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
" Forward, the Light Brigade I"
Was there a man dismay M ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd :
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die :
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm 'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash 'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd :
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke ;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd ;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell.
204
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade 1 ?
O the wild charge they made !
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made !
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred !
NORTHERN FARMER
OLD STYLE
WHEER 'asta bean saw long and mea liggin'
'ere aloan ?
Noorse ? thourt nowt o' a noorse : whoy,
Doctor's abean an' agoan :
Says that I moant 'a naw moor aale : but
I beaut a fool :
Git ma my aale, fur I beant a-gawin' to
break my rule.
Doctors, they knaws nowt, fur a says what 's
nawways true :
Naw soort o' koind o' use to saay the things
that a do.
I 've 'ed my point o' aale ivry noight sin' I
bean 'ere.
An' I Ve 'ed my quart ivry market-noight
for foorty year.
Parson 's a bean loikewoise, an' a sittin' 'ere
o' my bed.
" The amoighty 's a taakin o' you l to 'iss^n,
my friend," a said,
An' a towd ma my sins, an 's toithe were
due, an' I gied it in hond :
I done my duty boy 'um, as I 'a done boy
the lond.
Larn'd a ma' bea. I reckons I 'annot sa
mooch to larn.
But a cast oop, thot a did, 'bout Bessy Har
ris's barne.
Thaw a knaws I hallus voated wi' Squoire
an' choorch an' staate,
An' i' the woost o' toimes I wur niver agin
the raate.
An' I hallus coom'd to 's chooch afoor moy
Sally wur dead,
An* 'card 'um a bummin' awaay loike a
buzzard-clock 2 ower my 'cad,
l ou as in hour. 2 Cockchafer. 3 Bittern.
An' I niver knaw'd whot a mean'd but I
thowt a 'ad summut to saay,
An' I thowt a said whot a owt to 'a said
an' I coom'd away.
Bessy Marris's barne I tha knaws she laaid
it to mea.
Mowt a bean, mayhap, for she wur a bad
un, shea.
'Siver, I kep 'um, I kep 'um, my lass, tha
mun understond ;
I done moy duty boy 'um as I 'a done boy
the lond.
But Parson a cooms an' a goas, an' a says
it easy an' freea,
" The almoighty 's a taakin o' you to 'isse'n,
my friend," says 'ea.
I weant saay men be loiars, thaw summun
said it in 'aaste :
But 'e reads wonn sarmin a weeak, an' I 'a
stubb'd Thurnaby waaste.
D' ya moind the waaste, my lass ? naw, naw,
tha was not born then ;
Theer wur a boggle in it, I often 'eard 'um
mysen ;
Moast loike a butter-bump, 8 fur I 'card 'um
about an' about,
But I stubb'd 'um oop wi' the lot, an' raav'd
an' rembled 'um out.
Reaper's it wur ; fo' they fun 'um theer
a-laaid of 'is faace
Down i' the woild enemies 4 afoor I coom'd
to the plaace.
Noaks or Thimbleby toaner 6 'ed shot 'um
as dead as a naail.
Noaks wur 'ang'd for it oop at 'soize but
git ma my aale.
Dubbut loook at the waaste : theer warn't
not feead for a cow ;
Nowt at all but bracken an' fuzz, an' loook
at it now
Warnt worth nowt a haacre, an' now theer' s
lots o' feead,
Fourscoor 1 yows upon it an' some on it
down i' seead. 6
Nobbut a bit on it 's left, an' I mean'd to 'a
stubb'd it at fall,
Done it ta-year I mean'd, an' runn'd plo\i
thruff it an' all,
4 Anemones. 5 One or other. 6 Clover.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
2C 5
If godamoighty an* parson 'ud uobbut let
ma alolin,
Mea, vvi' halite h.xmderd haacre o' Squoire's,
an' lond o' my olin.
Do godamoighty knaw what a 's doin'
a-taakiu' o' mea ?
I beiint wonu as saws 'ere a bean an' yon
der a pea ;
An' Squoire 'ull be sa mad an' all a' dear
a' dear !
And 1 'a managed for Squoire coom Michael
mas ilium year.
A mowt 'a taaen owd Joanes, as 'ant not a
'aapoth o' sense,
Or a mowt 'a taaen young Robins a uiver
mended a fence :
But godamoighty a moost taake mea an'
taiike ma now
Wi' aaf the cows to cauve an' Thurnaby
hoiilms to plow !
Loook 'ow quoloty srnoiles when they seeas
ma a passin' boy,
Says to thessen, naw doubt, " what a man a
bea sewer-loy ! "
Fur they knaws what I bean to Squoire sin
fust a coom'd to the 'All ;
I done moy duty by Squoire an' I done moy
duty boy hall.
Squoire 's i' Lunnon, an* summun I reckons
'ull 'a to wroite,
For whoa 's to howd the lond ater mea thot
muddles ma quok ;
Sartin-sewer I bea, thot a weant niver give
it to Joanes,
Naw, nor a moant to Robins a niver rem-
bles the stoans.
But summun 'nil come ater mea mayhap
wi' 'is kittle o' steam
Huzzin' an' maazin' the blessed fealds wi'
the Divil's can team.
Sin' I mun doy I mun doy, thaw loife they
says is sweet,
But sin' I muu doy I mun doy, for I
could n abear to see it.
What atta stannin' theer fur, an* doesn bring
ma the aiile ?
Doctor 's a' toattler, lass, an a 's hallus i' the
owd taiile ;
I weant break rules fur Doctor, a knaws
naw moor nor a Hoy ;
Git ma my aale I tell tha, an* if I mun doy
I muu doy.
THE DAISY
WRITTEN AT EDINBURGH
O LOVE, what hours were thine and mine,
In lands of palm and southern pine ;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.
What Roman strength Turbia show'd
In ruin, by the mountain road ;
How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glow'd.
How richly down the rocky dell
The torrent vineyard streaming fell
To meet the sun and sunny waters,
That only heav'd with a summer swell.
What slender campanili grew
By bays, the peacock's neck in hue ;
Where, here and there, on sandy beaches
A milky-bell'd amaryllis blew.
How young Columbus seem'd to rove,
Yet present in his natal grove,
Now watching high on mountain cornice^
And steering, now, from a purple cove,
Now pacing mute by ocean's rim ;
Till, in a narrow street and dim,
I stay'd the wheels at Cogoletto,
And drank, and loyally drank to him.
Nor knew we well what pleas'd us most,
Not the clipp'd palm of which they boast)
But distant color, happy hamlet,
A moulder'd citadel on the coast,
Or tower, or high hill-convent,
A light amid its olives given ;
Or olive-hoary cape in ocean ;
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,
Where oleanders flush'd the bed
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread ;
And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten
Of ice, far up on a mountain head.
206
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
We lov'd that hall tho' white and cold,
Those niched shapes of noble mould,
A princely people's awful princes,
The grave, severe Genovese of old.
At Florence too what golden hours,
In those long galleries, were ours ;
What drives about the fresh Cascine,
Or walks in Boboli's ducal bowers.
In bright vignettes, and each complete,
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,
Or palace, how the city glitter'd,
Thro' cypress avenues, at our feet.
But when we cross'd the Lombard plain
Remember what a plague of rain ;
Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma ;
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.
And stern and sad (so rare the smiles
Of sunlight) look'd the Lombard piles ;
Porch-pillars on the lion resting,
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.
Milan, O the chanting quires,
The giant windows' blazon'd fires,
The height, the space, the gloom, the
glory !
A mount of marble, a hundred spires !
1 climb'd the roofs at break of day ;
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.
I stood among the silent statues,
And statued pinnacles, mute as they.
How faintly-flush'd, how phantom-fair,
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there
A thousand shadowy-pencill'd valleys
And snowy dells in a golden air.
Remember how we came at last
To Como ; shower and storm and blast
Had blown the lake beyond his limit,
And all was flooded ; and how we past
From Como, when the light was gray,
And in my head, for half the day,
The rich Virgilian rustic measure
Of Lari Maxume, all the way,
Like ballad-burthen music, kept,
As on The Lariano crept
To that fair port below the castle
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept ;
Or hardly slept, but watch'd awake
A cypress in the moonlight shake,
The moonlight touching o'er a terrace
One tall Agave above the lake.
What more ? we took our last adieu,
And up the snowy Splugen drew.
But ere we reach'd the highest summit
I pluck'd a daisy, I gave it you.
It told of England then to me,
And now it tells of Italy.
O love, we two shall go no longer
To lands of summer across the sea ;
So dear a life your arms enfold
Whose crying is a cry for gold :
Yet here to-night in this dark city,
When ill and weary, alone and cold,
I found, tho' crush'd to hard and dry,
This nursling of another sky
Still in the little book you lent me,
And where you tenderly laid it by :
And I forgot the clouded Forth,
The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth,
The bitter east, the misty summer
And gray metropolis of the North.
Perchance, to lull the throbs of pain,
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,
Perchance, to dream you still beside me^
My fancy fled to the South again.
THE FLOWER
ONCE in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.
To and fro they went
Thro' my garden-bower,
And muttering discontent
Curs'd me and my flower.
Then it grew so tall
It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o'er the wall
Stole the seed by night.
Sow'd it far and wide
By every town and tower,
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
207
Till all the people cried,
" Splendid is the flower."
Read my little fable :
He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,
For all have got the seed.
And some are pretty enough,
And some are poor indeed ;
And now again the people
Call it but a weed.
COME INTO THE GARDEN,
MAUD
COME into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone ;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the nmsk of the rose is blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon ;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune ;
Till silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush wHh the setting moon.
I said to the lily, " There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone ?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day ;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, " The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
young lord-lover, what sighs are those,
For one that will never be thine ?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
" For ever and ever, mine."
And the soul of the row went into my
blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall :
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to
the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all ;
From the meadow your walks have left c
sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree ;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake
As the pimpernel doz'd on the lea ;
But the rose was awake all night for your
sake,
Knowing your promise to me ;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are doue,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one ;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with
curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear ;
She is coming, my life, my fate ;
The red rose cries, " She is near, she if
near ; "
And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; "
The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear ; "
And the lily whispers, " I wait." f
She is coming, my own, my sweet ;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthv bed ;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead ;
Would start and treml'U' under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
208
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
THE SHELL
FROM "MAUD"
SEE what a lovely shell,
Small and pure as a pearl,
Lying close to my foot,
Frail, but a work divine,
Made so fairily well
With delicate spire and whorl,
How exquisitely minute,
A miracle of design !
What is it ? a learned man
Could give it a clumsy name.
Let him name it who can,
The beauty would be the same.
The tiny cell is forlorn,
Void of the little living will
That made it stir on the shore.
Did he- stand at the diamond door
Of his house in a rainbow frill ?
Did he push, when he was uncurl'd,
A golden foot or a fairy horn
Thro' his dim water- world ?
Slight, to be crush'd with a tap
Of my finger-nail on the sand,
Small, but a work divine,
Frail, but of force to withstand,
Year upon year, the shock
Of cataract seas that snap
The three-decker's oaken spine
Athwart the ledges of rock,
Here on the Breton strand !
THE PASSING OF ARTHUR
FROM " IDYLLS OF THE KING "
THEN saw they how there hove a dusky
barge,
Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern,
Beneath them ; and descending they were
ware
That all the decks were dense with stately
forms,
Black-stol'd, black-hooded, like a dream
by these
Three Queens with crowns of gold : and
from them rose
A cry that shiver'd to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste laud, where no one
comes,
Or hath come, since the making of the
world.
Then murmur'd Arthur, " Place me in the
barge."
So to the barge they came. There those
three Queens
Put forth their hands, and took the King,
and wept.
But she, that rose the tallest of them all
And fairest, laid his head upon her lap,
And loos'd the shatter'd casque, and chaf'd
his hands,
And calPd him by his name, complaining
loud,
And dropping bitter tears against a brow
Strip'd with dark blood : fur all his face
was white
And colorless, and like the wither'd moon
Smote by the fresh beam of the springing
east ;
And all his greaves and cuisses dash'd with
drops
Of onset ; and the light and lustrous
curls
That made his forehead like a rising sun
High from the dai's-throne were parch'd
with dust ;
Or, clotted into points and hanging loose,,
Mix'd with the knightly growth that fringed
his lips.
So like a shatter'd column lay the King ;
Not like that Arthur who, with lance in
rest,
From spur to plume a star of tournament,
Shot thro' the lists at Camelot, and charged
Before the eyes of ladies and of kings,,
Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere :
" Ah ! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go ?
Where shall I hide my forehead and my
eyes ?
For now I see the true old times are dead,
When every morning brought a noble
chance,
And every chance brought out a noble
knight.
Such times have been not since the light
that led
The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh.
But now the whole Round Table is dissolv'd
Which was an image of the mighty world,
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
209
And I, the last, go forth companionless,
And the days darken round me, and the
years,
Among new men, strange faces, other
minds."
And slowly auswer'd Arthur from the
barge :
1 The old order changeth, yielding place to
new,
And God fulfils himself in many ways,
it one good custom should corrupt the
world.
Comfort thyself : what comfort is in me ?
I have liv'd my life, and that which I have
done
May He within himself make pure ! but
thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are
wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore,
let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of
prayer
Both for themselves and those who call
them friend ?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.
But now farewell. I am going a long way
With these thou seest if indeed I go
(For all my mind is clouded with a
doubt)
To the island-valley of Avilion ;
Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,
Nor ever wind blows loudly ; but it lies
Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard
lawns
And bowery hollows crown'd with summer
sea,
Where I will heal me of my grievous
wound."
So said he, and the barge with oar and sail
Mov'd from the brink, like some full-
breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes
the flood
With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir
Bedivere
Revolving many memories, till the hull
Look'd one black dot against the verge of
dawn,
And on the mere the wailing died away.
RIZPAH
WAILING, wailing, wailing, the wind ore?
land and sea
And Willy's voice in the wind, " mother,
come out to me."
Why should he call me to-night, when be
knows that I cannot go ?
For the downs are as bright as day, and the
full moon stares at the snow.
We should be seen, my dear ; they would
spy us out of the town.
The loud black nights for us, and the storm
rushing over the down,
When I cannot see my own hand, but am
led by the creak of the chain,
And grovel and grope for my son till I find
myself drench'd with the rain.
Anything fallen again ? nay what was
there left to fall ?
I have taken them home, I have number'd
the bones, I have hidden them all.
What am I saying? and what are you t
do you come as a spy ?
Falls ? what falls ? who knows ? As the
tree falls so must it lie.
Who let her in ? how long 1ms she been ?
you what have you heard ?
Why did you sit so quiet ? you never have
spoken a word.
to pray with me yes a lady
none of their spies
But the night has crept into my heart, and
begun to darken my eyes.
Ah you, that have liv'd so soft, what
should you know of the night,
The blast and the burning shame and the
bitter frost and the fright ?
1 have done it, while you were asleep
you were only made for the day.
I have gather'd my baby together and
now you may go your way.
Nay for it 's kind of you, Madam, to sit
by an old dying wife.
But say nothing hard of my boy, I have
only an hour of life.
210
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
I kiss'd my boy in the prison, before he
went out to die.
" They dar'd me to do it," he said, and he
never has told me a lie.
I whipp'd him for robbing an orchard once
when he was but a child
" The farmer dar'd me to do it," he said ;
he was always so wild
And idle and could n't be idle my
Willy he never could rest.
The King should have made him a sol
dier ; he would have been one of his
best.
But he liv'd with a lot of wild mates, and
they never would let him be good ;
They swore that he dare not rob the mail,
and he swore that he would ;
And he took no life, but he took one purse,
and when all was done
He flung it among his fellows I '11 none
of it, said my son.
I came into court to the Judge and the
lawyers. I told them my tale,
God's own' truth but they kill'd him,
they kill'd him for robbing the mail.
They hang'd him in chains for a show
he had always borne a good name
To be hang'd for a thief and then put
away is n't that enough shame ?
Dust to dust low down let us hide !
but they set him so high
That all the ships of the world could stare
at him, passing by.
God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and
horrible fowls of the air,
But not the black heart of the lawyer who
kill'd him and haug'd him there.
And the jailer forced me away. I had bid
him my last goodbye ;
They had fasten'd the door of his cell,
" O mother ! " I heard him cry.
I could n't get back tho' I tried, he had
something further to say,
And now I never shall know it. The
jailer forced me away.
Then since I could n't but hear that cry of
my boy that was dead,
They seiz'd me and shut me up : they
fasten'd me down on my bed.
" Mother, O mother ! " he call'd in the
dark to me year after year
They beat me for that, they beat me
you know that I could n't but hear ;
And then at the last they found I had
grown so stupid and still
They let me abroad again but the
creatures had work'd their will.
Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my
bone was left
I stole them all from the lawyers and
you, will you call it a theft ?
My baby, the bones that had suck'd me,
the bones that had laugh'd and
had cried
Theirs ? O no ! they are mine not
theirs they had mov'd in my side.
Do you think I was scar'd by the bones ?
I kiss'd 'em, I buried 'em all
I can't dig deep, I am old in the night
by the churchyard wall.
My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the
trumpet of judgment 'ill sound,
But I charge you never to say that I laid
him in holy ground.
They would scratch him up they would
hang him again on the cursed tree.
Sin ? O yes we are sinners, I know
let all that be,
And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's
good will toward men
" Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord "
let me hear it again ;
" Full of compassion and mercy long-
suffering." Yes, O yes !
For the lawyer is born but to murder the
Saviour lives but to bless.
He '11 never put on the black cap except for
the worst of the worst,
And the first may be last I have heard it
in church and the last may be first.
Suffering O long-suffering yes, as the
Lord must know,
Year after year in the mist and the wind
and the shower and the snow.
Heard, have you ? what ? they have told
you he never repented his sin.
How do they know it ? are they his mother ?
are you of his kin ?
Heard ! have you ever heard, when the
storm on the downs began,
The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the
sea that 'ill moan like a man ?
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
211
Election, Election and Reprobation it 's
all very well.
But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall
not find him in Hell.
For I car'd so much for my boy that the
Lord has look'd into my care,
And He means me, I 'ni sure, to be happy
with Willy, I know not where.
And if he be lost but to save my soul,
that is all your desire :
Do you think that I care for my soul if my
boy be gone to the fire ?
I have been with God in the dark go, go,
you may leave me alone
You never have borne a child you are
just as hard as a stone.
Madam, I beg your pardon ! I think that
you mean to be kind,
But I cannot hear what you say for my
Willy's voice in the wind
The snow and the sky so bright he us'd
but to call in the dark,
And he calls to me now from the church
and not from the gibbet for hark !
Nay you can hear it yourself it is
coming shaking the walls
"Willy the moon's in a cloud Good
night. I am going. He calls.
FLOWER IN THE CRANNIED
WALL
FLOWER in the crannied wall,
I pluck you out of the crannies,
I hold you here, root and all, in my hand,
Little flower but if I could understand
What you are, root and all, and all in all,
I should know what God and man is.
SONG IN "THE FORESTERS"*
THERE is no land like England
Where'er the light of day be ;
There are no hearts like English hearts,
Such hearts of oak as they be.
There is no land like England
Where'er the light of day be ;
There are no men like Englishmen,
So tall and bold as they be.
And these will strike for England
And man and maid be free
To foil and spoil the tyrant
Beneath the greenwood tree.
There is no land like England
Where'er the light of day be ;
There are no wives likt Kn^lish wives,
So fair and chaste as they be.
There is no land like England
Where'er the light of day l>e ;
There are no maids like the English maids.
So beautiful as they be.
And these shall wed with freemen,
And all their sous be free,
To sing the songs of England
Beneath the greenwood tree.
VASTNESS
MAXT a hearth upon our dark globe sighs
after many a vanish'd face,
Many a planet by many a sun may roll with
the dust of a vanish'd race.
Raving politics, never at rest as this poor
earth's pale history runs,
What is it all but a trouble of ants in the
gleam of a million million of suns ?
Lies upon this side, lies upon that side,
truthless violence mourn'd by the
Wise,
Thousands of voices drowning his own in a
popular torrent of lies upon lies ;
Stately purposes, valor in battle, glorious
annals of army and fleet,
Death for the right cause, death for the
wrong cause, trumpets of victory,
groans of defeat ;
Innocence seeth'd in her mother's milk^
and Charity setting the martyi
aflame ;
Thraldom who walks with the banner ot
Freedom, and recks not to ruin a
realm in her name ;
Faith at her zenith, or all but lost in the
gloom of doubts that darken the
schools ;
Craft with a bunch of all-heal in her hand,
follow'd up by her vassal legioi
fools ;
* Copyright, 1892, by MACKILLAM A Co.
212
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Trade flying over a thousand seas with her
spice and her vintage, her silk and
her corn ;
Desolate offing, sailorless harbors, famish
ing populace, wharves forlorn ;
Star of the morning, Hope in the sunrise ;
gloom of the evening, Life at a close ;
Pleasure who flaunts on her wide downway
with her flying robe and her poison'd
Pain, that has crawl'd from the corpse of
Pleasure, a worm which writhes all
day, and at night
Stirs up again in the heart of the sleeper,
and stings him back to the curse of
the light ;
Wealth with his wines and his wedded
harlots ; honest Poverty, bare to the
bone ;
Opulent Avarice, lean as Poverty ; Flattery
gilding the rift in a throne ;
Fame blowing out from her golden trum
pet a jubilant challenge to Time and
to Fate ;
Slander, her shadow, sowing the nettle on
all the laurell'd graves of the Great ;
Love for the maiden, crown'd with mar- .
riage, no regrets for aught that has
been,
Household happiness, gracious children,
debtless competence, golden mean ;
National hatreds of whole generations, and
pigmy spites of the village spire ;
Vows that will last to the last death-ruckle,
and vows that are snapp'd in a mo
ment of fire ;
He that has liv'd for the lust of a minute,
and died in the doing it, flesh with
out mind ;
He that has nail'd all flesh to the Cross, till
Self died out in the love of his kind ;
Spring and Summer and Autumn and
Winter, and all these old revolutions
of earth ;
All new-old revolutions of Empire
change of the tide what is all of it
worth ?
What the philosophies, all the sciences,
poesy, varying voices of prayer ?
All that is noblest, all that is basest, all
that is filthy with all that is fair ?
What is it all, if we all of us end but in
being our own corpse-coffins at last,
Swallow'd in Vastness, lost in Silence,
drown'd in the deeps of a meaning
less Past ?
What but a murmur of gnats in the gloom,
or a moment's anger of bees in their
hive ?
Peace, let it be ! for I loved him, and love
him for ever : the dead are not dead
but alive.
THE SILENT VOICES*
WHEN the dumb Hour, cloth'd in black,
Brings the Dreams about my bed,
Call me not so often back,
Silent Voices of the dead,
Toward the lowland ways behind me,
And the sunlight that is gone !
Call me rather, silent Voices,
Forward to the starry track
Glimmering up the heights beyond me
On, and always on !
CROSSING THE BAR
SUNSET and evening star,
And one clear call for me !
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the bound*
less deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark !
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark ;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and
Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have cross'd the bar.
* Copyright, 1892, by MACMILLAN & Co.
BEACONSFIELD WESTVVOOD
of 25ffltonfid&
(BENJAMIN D'ISRAELI)
WELLINGTON Tlie breath ordain'd of Nature. Thy calm
NOT only that thy puissant arm could bind
The tyrant of a world ; and, conquering Fate,
Enfranchise Europe, do I deem thee great ;
But that in all thy actions I do find
Exact propriety : no gusts of mind
Fitful and wild, but that continuous state
Of order'd impulse mariners await
In some benignant and enriching wind,
Recalls old Rome, as much as thy high
deed;
Duty thine only idol, and serene
When all are troubled ; in the utmost need
Prescient ; thy country's servant ever eeen,
Yet sovereign of thyself, whate'er may
speed.
WIND OF THE MOUNTAIN!
WIND of the Mountain, Wind of the
Mountain, hear !
1 have a prayer to whisper in thine ear :
Hush, pine-tree, hush ! Be silent, syca
more !
Cease thy wild waving, ash-tree, old and
hoar !
Flow softly, stream ! My voice is faint
with fear
O Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the
Mountain, hear !
In the dull city, by the lowland shore,
Pale grows the cheek, so rosy-fresh of yore.
Woe for the child the fair blithe-hearted
child
Once thy glad playmate on the breezy
wild !
Hush, pine-tree, hush ! my voice is faint
with fear
Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the
Mountain, hear !
Pale grows the cheek, and dim the sunny
eyes,
And the voice falters, and the laughter dies.
Woe for the child ! She pines, on that sad
shore,
For the free hills and happy skies of yore.
Hush, river, hush ! my voice is faint with
fear
Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the
Mountain, hear t
O Wind of the Mountain, thou art swift
and strong
Follow, for love's sake, though the way be
long.
Follow, oh 1 follow, over down and dale,
To the far city in the lowland vale.
Hush, pine-tree, hush ! my voice is faint
with fear
O Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the
Mountain, hear I
Kiss the dear lips, and bid the laughters
rise ;
Flush the wan cheek, and brighten the dim
eyes ;
Sing songs of home, and soon, from grief
and pain,
Win back thy playmate, blessed Wind,
again 1
Win back my darling while away my
fear
O Wind of the Mountain, Wind of the
Mountain, hear !
IN THE GOLDEN MORNING OF
THE WORLD
IN the golden morning of the world,
When creation's freshness was unfurl'd,
Had earth truer, fonder hearts than now ?
One, at least, in this our day, I know,
(Whisper soft, a* / benedicite /)
Faithful-fond as any heart could be
In the golden morning of the world.
214
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
And were faces, in that orient time,
Flush'd, in sooth, with more resplendent
prime,
More consummate loveliness than now ?
Nay, one maiden face, at least, I know
(Whisper soft, a h / benedicite !)
Just as fair as any face could be
In the golden morning of the world.
But dark shadows reign, and storms are
rife,
In the once serene clear heaven of life.
Oh ! sweet angel, at the shining gate,
By God's mercy, keep one earthly fate,
One dear life ah I benedicite !
Happy, calm, as any such could be
In the golden morning of the world !
2Crti)ur
IN A LECTURE-ROOM
AWAY, haunt thou not me,
Thou vain Philosophy !
Little hast thou bestead,
Save to perplex the head,
And leave the spirit dead.
Unto thy broken cisterns wherefore go,
While from the secret treasure-depths be
low,
Fed by the skyey shower,
And clouds that sink and rest on hill-tops
high,
Wisdom at once, and Power,
Are welling, bubbling forth, unseen, in
cessantly ?
Why labor at the dull mechanic oar,
When the fresh breeze is blowing,
And the strong current flowing,
Right onward to the Eternal Shore ?
A PROTEST
LIGHT words they were, and lightly, falsely
said ;
She heard them, and she started, and
she rose,
As in the act to speak ; the sudden
thought
And unconsider'd impulse led her on.
In act to speak she rose, but with the sense
Of all the eyes of that mix'd company
Now suddenly turn'd upon her, some with
age
Harden'd and dull'd, some cold and criti
cal ;
Some in whom vapors of their own conceit,
As moist malarious mists the heavenly
stars,
Still blotted out their good, the best at
best
Clougl)
By frivolous laugh and prate conventional
All too untun'd for all she thought to
say,
With such a thought the mantling blood to
her cheek
Flush'd up, and o'er-flush'd itself, blank
night her soul
Made dark, and in her all her purpose
swoon'd.
She stood as if for sinking. Yet anon,
With recollections clear, august, sublime,
Of God's great truth, and right immuta
ble,
Which, as obedient vassals, to her mind
Came summon'd of her will, in self-nega
tion
Quelling her troublous earthly conscious
ness,
She queen'd it o'er her weakness. At the
spell
Back roll'd the ruddy tide, and leaves her
cheek
Paler than erst, and yet not ebbs so far
But that one pulse of one indignant
thought
Might hurry it hither in flood. So as she
stood
She spoke. God in her spoke, and made
her heard.
QUA CURSUM VENTUS
As ships, becalm'd at eve, that lay
With canvas drooping, side by side,
Two towers of sail at dawn of day
Are scarce long leagues apart descried ;
When fell the night, upsprung the breeze,
And all the darkling hours they plied,
Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas
By each was cleaving, side by side :
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
215
E'en so but why the tale reveal
Of those whom, year by year unchanged,
Brief absence join'd anew to feel,
Astounded, soul from soul estranged ?
At dead of night their sails were fill'd,
And onward each rejoicing steer'd :
Ah, neither blame, for neither will'd,
Or wist, what first with dawn appear'd !
To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain,
Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too,
Through winds and tides one compass
guides,
To that, and your own selves, be true.
But O blithe breeze, and O great seas,
Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,
On your wide plain they join again,
Together lead them home at last !
One port, methought, alike they sought,
One purpose hold where'er they fare,
O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
At last, at last, unite them there !
; FROM"THE BOTHIE OF TOBER-
NA-VUOLICH"
THE BATHERS
THERE is a stream, I name not its name,
lest inquisitive tourist
Hunt it, and make it a lion, and get it at
last into guide-books,
Springing far off from a loch unexplor'd
in the folds of great mountains,
Falling two miles through rowan and
stunted alder, enveloped
Then for four more in a forest of pine,
where broad and ample
Spreads, to convey it, the glen with heath
ery slopes on both sides :
Broad and fair the stream, with occasional
falls and narrows ;
But, where the glen of its course ap
proaches the vale of the river,
Met and block'd by a huge interposing
mass of granite,
Scarce by a channel deep-cut, raging up,
and raging onward,
Forces its flood through a passage so nar
row a lady would step it.
There, across the great rocky wharves, a
wooden bridge goes,
Carrying a path to the forest; below,
three hundred yards, say,
Lower in level some twenty-five feet,
through flats of shingle,
Stepping-stones and a cart-track cross in
the open valley.
But in the interval here the boiling,
pent-up water
Frees itself by a final descent, attaining a
basin,
Ten feet wide and eighteen long, with
whiteness and fury
Occupied partly, but mostly pellucid, pure,
a mirror ;
Beautiful there for the color deriv'd from
green rocks under ;
Beautiful, most of all, where beads of
foam up-rising
Mingle their clouds of white with the deli
cate hue of the stillness.
Cliff over cliff for its sides, with rowan and
pendant birch boughs,
Here it lies, unthought of above at the
bridge and pathway,
Still more enclosed from below by wood
and rocky projection.
You are shut in, lett alone with yourself
and perfection of water,
Hid on all sides, left alone with yourself
and the goddess of bathing.
Here, the pride of the plunger, you stride
the fall and clear it ;
Here, the delight of the bather, you roll in
beaded sparklings,
Here into pure green depth drop down
from lofty ledges.
Hither, a month agone, they had come,
and discover'd it ; hither
(Long a design, but long unaccountably left
unaccomnlish'd),
Leaving the well-known bridge and path*
way above to the forest,
Turning below from the track of the carte.
over stone and shingle,
Piercing a wood, and skirting a narrow and
natural causeway
Under the rocky wall that hedges the hed
of the streamlet,
Rounded a craggy point, and saw on a scd-
den before them
Slabs of rock, and a tiny beach, and perfec
tion of water,
2l6
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Picture-like beauty, seclusion sublime, and
the goddess of bathing.
There they bath'd, of course, and Arthur,
the glory of headers,
Leap'd from the ledges with Hope, he
twenty feet, he thirty ;
There, overbold, great Hobbes from a ten-
foot height descended,
Prone, as a quadruped, prone with hands
and feet protending ;
There in the sparkling champagne, ecstatic,
they shriek'd and shouted.
" Hobbes's gutter " the Piper entitles
the spot, profanely,
Hope "the Glory" would have, after
Arthur, the glory of headers :
But, for before they departed, in shy and
fugitive reflex
Here in the eddies and there did the splen
dor of Jupiter glimmer ;
Adam adjudged it the name of Hesperus,
star of the evening.
Hither, to Hesperus, now, the star of the
evening above them,
Come in their lonelier walk the pupils
twain and Tutor ;
Turn'd from the track of the carts, and
passing the stone and shingle,
Piercing the wood, and skirting the stream
by the natural causeway,
Rounded the craggy point, and now at their
ease look'd up ; and
Lo, on the rocky ledge, regardant, the
Glory of headers,
Lo, on the beach, expecting the plunge, not
cigarless, the Piper.
And they look'd, and wonder'd, incredu
lous, looking yet once more.
Yes, it was he, on the ledge, bare-limb'd,
an Apollo, down-gazing,
Eying one moment the beauty, the life, ere
he flung himself in it,
Eying through eddying green waters the
green-tinting floor underneath them,
Eying the bead on the surface, the bead,
like a cloud, rising to it,
Drinking in, deep in his soul, the beautiful
hue and the clearness,
Arthur, the shapely, the brave, the unboast-
ing, the glory of headers ;
Yes, and with fragrant weed, by his knap
sack, spectator and critic,
Seated on slab by the margin, the Piper,
the Cloud-compeller.
PESCHIERA
WHAT voice did on my spirit fall,
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost ?
" 'T is better to have fought and lost,
Than never to have fought at all."
The tricolor a trampled rag
Lies dirt and dust ; the lines I track
By sentries' boxes, yellow, black,
Lead up to no Italian flag.
I see the Croat soldier stand
Upon the grass of your redoubts ;
The eagle with his black wing flouts
The breadth and beauty of your land.
Yet not in vain, although in vain,
O men of Brescia ! on the day
Of loss past hope, I heard you say
Your welcome to the noble pain.
You said : " Since so it is, good-bye,
Sweet life, high hope ; but whatsoe'er
May be, or must, no tongue shall dare
To tell, The Lombard f ear'd to die ! ' "
You s&id (there shall be answer fit) :
" And if our children must obey,
They must ; but, thinking on this day,
'T will less debase them to submit."
You said (O not in vain you said) :
"Haste, brothers, haste, while yet we
may ;
The hours ebb fast of this one day,
While blood may yet be nobly shed."
Ah ! not for idle hatred, not
For honor, fame, nor self-applause,
But for the glory of the cause,
You did what will not be forgot.
And though the stranger stand, 't is true,
By force and fortune's right he stands :
By fortune, which is in God's hands,
And strength, which yet shall spring in
you.
This voice did on my spirit fall,
Peschiera, when thy bridge I crost :
" 'T is better to have fought and lost,
Than never to have fought at all."
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH
217
FROM "AMOURS DE VOYAGE"
JUXTAPOSITION
JUXTAPOSITION, in fine ; and what is juxta
position ?
>k you, we travel along in the railway-
carriage or steamer,
id, pour passer le temps, till the tedious
journey be ended,
aside paper or book, to talk with the
girl that is next one ;
1, pour passer le temps, with the terminus
all but in prospect,
Talk of eternal ties and marriages made in
heaven.
Ah, did we really accept with a perfect
heart the illusion !
Lh, did we really believe that the Pre
sent indeed is the Only !
through all transmutation, all shock
and convulsion of passion,
feel we could carry undimmed, unextin-
guished, the light of our knowledge !
But for his funeral train which the bride
groom sees in the distance,
he so joyfully, think you, fall in
with the marriage-procession ?
lut for that final discharge, would he dare
to enlist in that service ?
it for that certain release, ever sign to
that perilous contract ?
it for that exit secure, ever bend to that
treacherous doorway ?
but the bride, meantime, do you
think she sees it as he does ?
But for the steady fore-sense of a freer
and larger existence,
ik yon that man could consent to be
circumscribed here into action ?
it for assurance within of a limitless ocean
divine, o'er
lose great tranquil depths unconscious
the wind-toss'd surface
ts into ripples of trouble that come
and change and endure not,
it that in this, of a truth, we have our
being, and know it,
link you we men could submit to live and
move as we do here ?
J, but the women, God bless them !
they don't think at all about it.
Yet we must eat and drink, as you say.
And as limited beings
Scarcely can hope to attain upon earth to
an Actual Abstract,
Leaving to God contemplation, to His hands
knowledge confiding,
S*'re that in us if it perish, in Him it abid-
eth and dies not.
Let us in His sight accomplish our petty
particular doings,
Yes, and contented sit down to the victual
that He has provided.
Allah is great, no doubt, and Juxtaposition
his prophet.
Ah, but the women, alas ! they don't lent
at it in that way.
Juxtaposition is great ; but, my frit-art,
I fear me, the maiden
Hardly would thank or acknowledge the
lover that sought to obtain her,
Not as the thing he would wish, but the
thing he must even put up witb r
Hardly would tender her hand to the wooer
that candidly told her
That she is but for a space, an ad-interim
solace and pleasure,
That in the end she shall yield to a perfect
and absolute something,
Which I then for myself shall behold, and
not another,
Which, amid fondest endearments, mean
time I forget not, forsake not.
Ah, ye feminine souls, so loving and so ex
acting,
Since we cannot escape, must we even sub
mit to deceive you ?
Since, so cruel is truth, sincerity shocks
and revolts you,
Will you have us your slaves to lie to you,
flatter and leave you ?
ITE DOMUM SATUR/E, VENIT
HESPERUS
THE skies have sunk, and hid the upper
snow,
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
The rainy clouds are filling fast below,
And wet will be the path, and wet shall we.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !
Ah dear ! and where is he, a year agone,
Who stepp'd beside and cheer'd us on and
on?
2l8
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
My sweetheart wanders far away from me
In foreign land or on a foreign sea.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !
The lightning zigzags shoot across the sky,
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
And through the vale the rains go sweep
ing by ;
Ah me ! and when in shelter shall we be ?
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
Cold, dreary cold, the stormy winds feel
they
O'er foreign lands and foreign seas that
stray.
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
And doth he e'er, I wonder, bring to mind
The pleasant huts and herds he left be
hind ?
And doth he sometimes in his slumbering
see
The feeding kine, and doth he think of
me,
My sweetheart wandering wheresoe'er it
be?
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !
The thunder bellows far from snow to
snow,
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
And loud and louder roars the flood be
low.
Heigh-ho ! but soon in shelter shall we be :
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !
Or shall he find before his term be sped
Some comelier maid that he shall wish to
wed?
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
For weary is work, and weary day by day
To have your comfort miles on miles away.
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
Or may it be that I shall find my mate,
And he, returning, see himself too late ?
For work we must, and what we see, we see,
And God he knows, and what must be,
must be,
When sweethearts wander far away from
me.
Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !
The sky behind is brightening up anew,
(Home, Rose, and home, Provence and La
Palie !)
The rain is ending, and our journey too ;
Heigh-ho ! aha ! for here at home are
we :
In, Rose, and in, Provence and La Palie !
AH! YET CONSIDER IT AGAIN
OLD things need not be therefore true,
O brother men, nor yet the new ;
Ah ! still awhile the old thought retain,
And yet consider it again !
The souls of now two thousand years
Have laid up here their toils and fears,
And all the earnings of their pain,
Ah, yet consider it again !
We ! what do we see ? each a space
Of some few yards before his face ;
Does that the whole wide plan explain ?
Ah, yet consider it again !
Alas ! the great world goes its way,
And takes its truth from each new day ;
They do not quit, nor can retain,
Far less consider it again.
WHERE LIES THE LAND
WHERE lies the land to which the ship
would go ?
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
And where the land she travels from?
Away,
Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth
face,
Link'd arm in arm, how pleasant here to
pace !
Or o'er the stern reclining, watch below
The foaming wake far widening as we go.
CLOUGH SHAIRP SMEDLEY
219
On stormy nights, when wild northwesters
rave,
How proud a thing to fight with wind and
wave !
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.
Where lies the land to which the ship would
go?
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
And where the land she travels from?
Away,
Far, far behind, u all that they can say.
3[ol)it Campbell
CAILLEACH BEIN-Y-VREICH i
WEIRD wife of Bein-y-Vreich ! horo ! horo !
Aloft in the mist she dwells ;
Vreich horo ! Vreich horo ! Vreich horo !
All alone by the lofty wells.
Weird, weird wife ! with the long gray
locks,
She follows her fleet-foot stags,
Noisily moving through splinter'd rocks,
And crashing the grisly crags.
Tall wife, with the long gray hose I in
haste
The rough stony beach she walks ;
But dulse or seaweed she will not taste,
Nor yet the green kail stalks.
And I will not let my herds of deer,
My bonny red deer go down ;
I will not let them down to the shore,
To feed on the sea-shells brown.
Oh, better they love in the corrie's recess,
Or on mountain 'top to dwell,
And feed by my side on the green, green
cress,
That grows by the lofty well.
Broad Bein-y-Vreich is grisly and drear,
But wherever my feet have been
The well-springs start for my darling deer,
And the grass grows tender and green.
And there high up on the calm nights clear,
Beside the lofty spring,
They come to my call, and I milk them
there,
And a weird wild song I sing.
But when hunter men round my dun deer
prowl,
I will not let them nigh ;
Through the rended cloud I cast one scowl,
They faint on the heath and die.
And when the north wind o'er the desert
bare
Drives loud, to the corries below
I drive my herds down, and bield them
there
From the drifts of the blinding snow.
Then I mount the blast, and we ride full
fast,
And laugh as we stride the storm,
I, and the witch of the Cruachan Ben,
And the scowling-eyed Seul-Gorm.
THE LITTLE FAIR SOUL
A LITTLE fair soul that knew no sin
Look'd over the edge of Paradise,
And saw one striving to come in,
With fear and tumult iu his eyes.
i A beanshith or fairy seen by hunter*.
Oh, brother, is it you ? '' he cried ;
"Your face is like a breath
home ;
Why do you stay so long outside ?
I am athirst for you to come I
ft, .1:1
22O
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
" Tell me first how our mother fares,
And has she wept too much for me ? "
" White are her cheeks and white her hairs,
But not from gentle tears for thee."
" Tell me, where are our sisters gone ? "
"Alas, I left them weary and wan."
' And tell me is the baby grown ? "
"Alas ! he is almost a man.
" Cannot you break the gathering days,
And let the light of death come through,
Ere his feet stumble in the maze
Cross'd safely by so few, so few ?
" For like a crowd upon the sea
That darkens till you find no shore,
So was that face of life to me,
Until I sank for evermore ;
" And like an army in the snow
My days went by, a treacherous train,
Each smiling as he struck his blow,
Until I lay among them slain."
" Oh, brother, there was a path so clear ! "
" There might be, but I never sought."
" Oh, brother, there was a sword so near ! "
"There might be, but I never fought."
u Yet sweep this needless gloom aside,
For you are come to the gate at last ! "
Then in despair that soul replied,
" The gate is fast, the gate is fast' 1 "
" I cannot move this mighty weight,
I cannot find this golden key ;
But hosts of heaven around us wait,
And none has ever said ' No ' to me.
" Sweet Saint, put by thy palm and scroll,
And come and undo the door for me ! "
" Rest thee still, thou little fair soul,
It is not mine to keep the key."
" Kind Angel, strike these doors apart !
The air without is dark and cold."
" Rest thee still, thou little pure heart,
Not for my word will they unfold."
Up all the shining heights he pray'd
For that poor Shadow in the cold !
Still came the word, " Not ours to aid ;
We cannot make the doors unfold."
But that poor Shadow, still outside,
Wrung all the sacred air with pain ;
And all the souls went up and cried
Where never cry was heard in vain.
No eye beheld the pitying Face,
The answer none might understand,
But dimly through the silent space
Was seen the stretching of a Hand.
THE DRIED-UP FOUNTAIN
OUTSIDE the village, by the public road,
I know a dried-up fountain, overgrown
With herbs, the haunt of legendary toad,
And grass, by Nature sown.
I know not where its trickling life was still'd;
No living ears its babbling tongue has
caught ;
But often, as I pass, I see it fill'd
And running o'er with thought.
I see it as it was in days of old,
The blue-ey'd maiden stooping o'er its
brim,
And smoothing in its glass her locks of gold,
Lest she should meet with him.
3tei0l)ton
She knows that he is near, yet I can see
Her sweet confusion when she hears him
come.
No tryst had they, though every evening he
Carries her pitchers home.
The ancient beggar limps along the road
At thirsty noon, and rests him by its
brink ;
The dusty pedlar lays aside his load,
And pauses there to drink.
And there the village children come to
play,
When busy parents work in shop and
field.
The swallows, too, find there the loamy clay
When 'neath the eaves they build.
LEIGHTON MATTHEW ARNOLD
221
When cows at eve come crooning home,
the boy
Leaves them to drink, while his mechanic
skill
Within the brook sets up, with inward joy,
His tiny water-mill.
And when the night is hush'd in summer
sleep,
And rest has come to laborer and team,
I hear the runnel through the long grass
creep,
As 't were a whispering dream.
Alas ! 't is all a dream. Lover and lass,
Children and wanderers, are in their
graves ;
And where the fountain flow'd a greener
grass
Its In Memoriam waves.
fl^attljcto
unty
As though one spake of life unto the
WRITTEN IN EMERSON'S
ESSAYS
"O MONSTROUS, dead, unprofitable world,
That thou canst hear, and hearing, hold thy
way !
A voice oracular .hath peal'd to-day,
To-day a hero's banner is unfurl'd ;
Hast thou no lip for welcome ? " So I
said.
Man after man, the world smil'd and
pass'd by ;
A smile of wistful incredulit
ough 01
dead
Scornful, and strange, and sorrowful, and
full
Of bitter knowledge. Yet the will is
free ;
Strong is the soul, and wise, and beauti
ful ;
The seeds of god-like power are in us still ;
Gods are we, bards, saints, heroes, if we
will !
Dumb judges, answer, truth or mockery ?
[THE WORLD AND THE QUIETIST
" WHY, when the world's great mind
Hath finally inclin'd,
Why," you say, Critias, "be debating still ?
Why, with these mournful rhymes
Learn'd in more languid climes,
Blame our activity
Who, with such passionate will,
Are what we mean to be ? "
Critias, long since, I know
(For Fate decreed it so),
Long since the world hath set its heart to
live ;
Long since, with credulous zeal
It turns life's mighty wheel,
Still doth for laborers send
Who still their labor give,
And still expects an end.
Yet, as the wheel flies round,
With no ungrateful sound
Do adverse voices fall on the world's ear.
Deafen'd by his own stir
The nigged laborer
Caught not till then a sense
So glowing and so near
Of his omnipotence.
So, when the feast grew loud
In Susa's palace proud,
A white-rob'd slave stole to the Great
King's side.
He spake the Great King heard ;
Felt the slow-rolling word
Swell his attentive soul ;
Breath'd deeply as it died,
And drain'd his mighty bowl.
FROM "SOHRAB AND RUSTUM"
THE COMBAT
HE ceas'd, but while he spake, Rustum
had risen,
And stood erect, trembling with rage ; his
club
He left to lie, but had regnin'd his spear,
Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-
hand
822
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Blaz'd bright and baleful, like that autumn-
star,
The baleful sign of fevers ; dust had soil'd
His stately crest, and dimm'd his glitter
ing arms.
His breast heav'd, his lips foam'd, and
twice his voice
Was chok'd with rage ; at last these words
broke way :
" Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with
thy hands !
Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet
words !
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no
more !
Thou art not in Af rasiab's gardens now
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art
wont to dance ;
But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance
Of battle, and with me, who make no play
Of war ; I fight it out, and hand to hand.
Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and
wine !
Remember all thy valor ; try thy feints
And cunning ! all the pity I had is gone ;
Because thou hast shani'd me before both
the hosts
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy
girl's wiles."
He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his
taunts,
And he too drew his sword ; at once they
rush'd
Together, as two eagles on one prey
Come rushing down together from the
clouds,
One from the east, one from the west ;
their shields
Dash'd with a clang together, and a din
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters
Make often in the forest's heart at morn,
Of hewing axes, crashing trees such blows
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd.
And you would say that sun and stars took
part
In that unnatural conflict ; for a cloud
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the
sun
Over the fighters' heads ; and a wind rose
Under their feet, and moaning swept the
plain,
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the
pair.
In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and
they alone ;
For both the on-looking hosts on either
hand
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was
pure,
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream.
But in the gloom they fought, with blood
shot eyes
And laboring breath ; first Rustum struck
the shield
Which Sohrab held stiff out ; the steel-
spik'd spear
Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach
the skin,
And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry
groan.
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rus-
tum's helm,
Nor clove its steel quite through ; but all
the crest
He shore away, and that proud horsehair
plume,
Never till now defil'd, sank to the dust ;
And Rustum bow'd his head ; but then
the gloom
Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air,
And lightnings rent the cloud ; and Ruksh,
the horse,
Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful
cry;
No horse's cry was that, most like the roar
Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day
Has trail'd the hunter's javelin in his side,
And comes at night to die upon the
sand
The two hosts heard that cry, and quak'd
for fear,
And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream.
But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but
rush'd on,
And struck again ; and again Rustum
bow'd
His head ; but this time all the blade, like
Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm,
And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone.
Then Rustum rais'd his head ; his dread
ful eyes
Glar'd, and he shook on high his menacing
spear,
And shouted : Rustum I Sohrab heard
that shout,
And shrank amaz'd : back he recoil'd one
step,
And scann'd with blinking eyes the ad
vancing form ;
MATTHEW ARNOLD
And then he stood bewilder'd, and lie
dropp'd
His covering shield, and the spear pierced
his side.
t| He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to
the ground ;
And then the gloom dispers'd, and the
wind fell,
And the bright sun broke forth, and melted
all
The cloud ; and the two armies saw the
pair ;
Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet,
And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.
OXUS
But the majestic river floated on,
Out of the mist and hum of that low land,
Into the frosty starlight, and there mov'd,
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian
waste,
Under the solitary moon ; he flow'd
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje,
Brimming, and bright, and large ; then
sands begin
To hem his watery march, and dam his
streams,
And split his currents ; that for many a
league
The shorn and parcelFd Oxus strains along
Through beds of sand and matted rushy
isles
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere,
A foil'd circuitous wanderer till at last
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and
wide
[is luminous home of waters opens, bright
tranquil, from whose floor the new-
bath'd stars
;rge, and shine upon the Aral Sea.
FROM "BALDER DEAD"
THE INCREMATION
BUT now the sun had pass'd the height of
Heaven,
And soon had all that day been spent in
wail ;
But then the Father of the ages said :
" Ye Gods, there well may be too much
of wail !
Bring now the gather'd wood to Balder's
ship ;
Heap on the deck the logs, and build the
pyre."
But when the Gods and Heroes heard,
they brought
The wood to Balder's ship, and built a pile,
Full the deck's breadth, and lofty; then
the corpse
Of Balder on the highest top they laid,
With Nanna on his right, and on his left
Hoder, his brother, whom his own hand
slew.
And they set jars of wine and oil to lean
Against the bodies, and stuck torches near,
Splinters of pine-wood, soak'd with turpen
tine ;
And brought his arms and gold, and all his
stuff,
And slew the dogs who at his table fed,
And his horse, Balder's horse, whom roost
he lov'd,
And threw them on the pyre, and Odin
threw
A last choice gift thereon, his golden ring.
The mast they fix'd, and hoisted up the
sails,
Then they put fire to the wood ; and Thor
Set his stout shoulder hard against the
stern
To push the ship through the thick
sand ; sparks flew
From the deep trench she plough'd, so
strong a God
Furrow'd it ; and the water gurgled in.
And the ship floated on the waves, and
rock'd.
But in the hills a strong east-wind arose,
And came down moaning to the sea ; first
squalls
Ran black o'er the sea's face, then steady
rush'd
The breeze, and fill'd the sails, and blew
the fire ;
And wreath'd in smoke the ship stood out
to sea.
Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire.
And the pile crackled ; and between the
logs
Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out,
and leap'd,
Curling and darting, higher, until they
lick'd
The summit of the pile, the dead, the
mast,
And ate the shrivelling sails ; but still the
ship
224
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire.
And the Gods stood upon the beach, and
And while they gaz'd, the sun went lurid
down
Into the smoke-wrapp'd seas, and night
came on.
Then the wind fell, with night, and there
was calm ;
But through the dark they watch'd the
* burning ship
Still carried o'er the distant waters on,
Farther and farther, like an eye of fire.
And long, in the far dark, blaz'd Balder's
pile ;
But fainter, as the stars rose high, it
flar'd ;
The bodies were cousum'd, ash chok'd the
pile.
And as, in a decaying winter-fire,
A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower of
sparks
So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in,
Reddening the sea around ; and all was
dark.
But the Gods went by starlight up the
shore
To Asgard, and sate down in Odin's hall
At table, and the funeral-feast began.
All night they ate the boar Serimner's
flesh,
And from their horns, with silver rimm'd,
drank mead,
Silent, and waited for the sacred morn.
THE FORSAKEN MERMAN
COME, dear children, let us away ;
Down and away below I
Now my brothers call from the bay,
Now the great winds shoreward blow,
Now the salt tides seaward flow ;
Now the wild white horses play,
Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.
Children dear, let us away !
This way, this way !
Call her once before you go
Call once yet !
In a voice that she will know :
" Margaret ! Margaret ! "
Children's voices should be dear
(Call once more) to a mother's ear ;
Children's voices, wild with pain
Surely she will come again !
Call her once and come away ;
This way, this way !
" Mother dear, we cannot stay !
The wild white horses foam and fret."
Margaret ! Margaret !
Come, dear children, come away down ;
Call no more !
One last look at the white-wall'd town,
And the little gray church on the windy
shore ;
Then come down !
She will not come though you call all day ;
Come away, come away !
Children dear, was it yesterday
We heard the sweet bells over the bay ?
In the caverns where we lay,
Through the surf and through the swell,
The far-off sound of a silver bell ?
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep,
Where the winds are all asleep ;
Where the spent lights quiver and gleam,
Where the salt weed sways in the stream,
Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round,
Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground ;
Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,
Dry their mail and bask in the brine ;
Where great whales come sailing by,
Sail and sail, with unshut eye,
Round the world for ever and aye ?
When did music come this way ?
Children dear, was it yesterday ?
Children dear, was it yesterday
(Call yet once) that she went away ?
Once she sate with you and me,
On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea,
And the youngest sate on her knee.
She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended
it well,
When down swung the sound of a far-off
bell.
She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear
green sea ;
She said : " I must go, for my kinsfolk
pray
In the little gray church on the shore to
day.
'Twill be Easter-time in the world ah
me !
And I lose my poor soul, Merman ! here
with thee."
I said : " Go up, dear heart, through the
waves ;
MATTHEW ARNOLD
iy thy prayer, and come back to the kind
sea-caves J "
She smil'd, she went up through the surf
in the bay.
Children dear, was it yesterday ?
Children dear, were we long alone ?
"The sea grows stormy, the little ones
^^ moan ;
Long prayers," I said, " in the world they
say ;
Come ! " I said ; and we rose through the
surf in the bay.
We went up the beach, by the sandy down
Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-
wall'd town ;
igh the narrow pav'd streets, where
all was still,
L'o the little gray church on the windy
hill.
>m the church came a murmur of folk
at their prayers,
tut we stood without in the cold blowing
airs.
r e climb'd on the graves, on the stones
worn with rains,
Lnd we gaz'd up the aisle through the
small leaded panes,
sate by the pillar ; we saw her clear :
Margaret, hist ! come quick, we are here !
heart," I said, " we are long alone ;
sea grows stormy, the little ones moan."
Jut, ah, she gave me never a look,
''or her eyes were seal'd to the holy book !
id prays the priest : shut stands the door,
/ome away, children, call no more!
Dome away, come down, call no more !
Down, down, down !
Down to the depths of the sea !
She sits at her wheel in the humming town.
Singing most joyfully.
Hark what she sings : " O joy, O joy,
For the humming street, and the child with
its toy !
or the priest, and the bell, and the holy
well;
or the wheel where I spun,
nd the blessed light of the sun ! "
nd so she sings her fill,
inging most joyfully,
'ill the spindle drops from her hand,
And the whizzing wheel stands still.
She steals to the window, and looks at the
sand,
And over the sand at the sea ;
And her eyes are set iii a stare ;
And anon there breaks a sigh,
And anon there drops a tear,
From a sorrow-clouded eye,
And a heart sorrow-ladeii,
A long, lone sigh;
For the cold strange eyes of a little Met*
maiden
And the gleam of her golden hair.
Come away, away, children ;
Come, children, come down !
The hoarse wind blows colder ;
Lights shine in the town.
She will start from her slumber
When gusts shake the door ;
She will hear the winds howling,
Will hear the waves roar.
We shall see, while above us
The waves roar and whirl,
A ceiling of amber,
A pavement of pearl.
Singing : " Here came a mortal,
But faithless was she i
And alone dwell for ever
The kings of the sea."
But, children, at midnight,
When soft the winds blow,
When clear falls the moonlight,
When spring-tides are low ;
When sweet airs come seaward
From heaths starr'd with broom,
And high rocks throw mildly
On the blanch'd sands a gloom ;
Up the still, glistening beaches,
Up the creeks we will hie.
Over banks of bright seaweed
The ebb-tide leaves dry.
We will gaze, from the sand-hills,
At the white, sleeping town ;
At the church on the hill-side
And then come back down.
Singing : There dwells a lov'd one,
But cruel is she 1
She left lonely for ever
The kings of the sea,"
PHILOMELA
HARK ! ah, the nightingale
The tawny-throated !
Hark, from that moonlit cedar what a
burst I
226
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
What triumph ! hark ! what pain !
O wanderer from a Grecian shore,
Still, after many years, in distant lauds,
Still nourishing in thy bewilder'd brain
That wild, uuquench'd, deep-sunken, old-
world pain
Say, will it never heal ?
And can this fragrant lawn
With its cool trees, and night,
And the sweet, tranquil Thames,
And moonshine, and the dew,
To thy rack'd heart and brain
Afford no balm ?
Dost thou to-night behold,
Here, through the moonlight on this English
grass,
The unfriendly palace in the Thracian
wild?
Dost thou again peruse
With hot cheeks and sear'd eyes
The too clear web, and thy dumb sister's
shame ?
Dost thou once more assay
Thy flight, and feel come over thee,
Poor fugitive, the feathery change
Once more, and once more seem to make
resound
With love and hate, triumph and agony,
Lone Daulis, and the high Cephissian vale ?
Listen, Eugenia
How thick the bursts come crowding
through the leaves !
Again thou nearest ?
Eternal passion !
Eternal pain !
DOVER BEACH
THE sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits ; on the French coast the
light
Gleams and is gone ; the cliffs of England
stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil
bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-
air !
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd
sand,
Listen ! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and
fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the ^Egaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery ; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The sea of faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's
shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-winds, down the vast edges
drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another ! for the world, which
seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain ;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with conf us'd alarms of struggle and
flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
FROM
EMPEDOCLES
ETNA"
ON
AND you, ye stars,
Who slowly begin to marshal,
As of old, in the fields of heaven,
Your distant, melancholy lines !
Have you, too, survived yourselves ?
Are you, too, what I fear to become ?
You, too, once liv'd ;
You too mov'd joyfully,
Among august companions,
In an older world, peopled by Gods,
In a mightier order,
The radiant, rejoicing, intelligent Sons oi
Heaven.
But now, ye kindle
Your lonely, cold-shining lights,
Unwilling lingerers
In the heavenly wilderness,
MATTHEW ARNOLD
227
tor a younger, ignoble world ;
md renew, by necessity,
light after night your courses,
n echoing, uuuear'd silence,
Above a race you know not
Uncaring and undelighted,
Without friend and without borne ;
eary like us, though not
r eary with our weariness.
Jo, no, ye stars ! there is no death with
you,
languor, no decay ! languor and death,
jy are with me, not you ! ye are alive
and the pure dark ether where ye ride
Jrilliant above me ! And thou, fiery world,
?hat sapp'st the vitals of this terrible
mount
whose charr'd and quaking crust I
stand
>u, too, briinmest with life ! the sea of
cloud,
heaves its white and billowy vapors up
moat this isle of ashes from the world,
ives ; and that other fainter sea, far down,
'er whose lit floor a road of moonbeams
leads
Etna's Liparean sister-fires
~ the long dusky line of Italy
mild and luminous floor of waters
lives,
held-in joy swelling its heart ; I only,'
r hose spring of hope is dried, whose spirit
has fail'd,
who have not, like these, in solitude
[aintain'd courage and force, and in myself
lurs'd an immortal vigor I alone
im dead to life and joy, therefore I read
all things my own deadness.
THE BURIED LIFE
JHT flows our war of mocking words,
and yet,
.-held, with tears mine eyes are wet !
feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll,
fes, yes, we know that we can jest,
" know, we know that we can smile !
it there 's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
nd thy gay smiles no anodyne ;
rive me thy hand, and hush awhile,
ind turn those limpid eyes on mine,
k.nd let me read there, love ! thy inmost
soul.
Alas ! is even love too weak
To unlock the heart, and let it speak ?
Are even lovers powerless to reveal
To one another what indeed they feel ?
I knew the mass of men cottceaTd
Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd
They would by other men be met
With blank indifference, or with
reprov'd ;
I knew they liv'd and raov'd
Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest
Of men, and alien to themselves and yet
The same heart beats in every human
breast !
But we, my love ! doth a like spell be
numb
Our hearts, our voices ? must we too be
dumb?
Ah ! well for us, if even we,
Even for a moment, can get free
Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd ;
For that which seals them hath been deep-
ordain'd !
Fate, which foresaw
How frivolous a baby man would be
By what distractions he would be possess'd,
How he would pour himself in every strife,
And well-nigh change his own identity
That it might keep from his capricious play
His genuine self, and force him to obey
Even in his own despite his being's law,
Bade through the deep recesses of our
breast
The unregarded river of our life
Pursue with indiscernible flow its way ;
And that we should not see
The buried stream, and seem to be
Eddying at large in blind uncertainty,
Though driving on with it eternally.
But often, in the world's most crowded
streets,
But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life ;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out our true, original course ;
A longing to inquire
Into the mystery of this heart which beats
So wild, so deep in us to know
Whence our lives come and where thej
228
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
And many a man in his own breast then
delves,
But deep enough, alas ! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and
power ;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been our
selves
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through
our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress'd.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well but 't is not true !
And then we will no more be rack'd
With inward striving, and demand
Of all the thousand nothings of the hour
Their stupefying power ;
Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call !
Yet still, from time to time, vague and
forlorn,
From the soul's subterranean depth upborne
As from an infinitely distant land,
Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey
A melancholy into all our day.
Only but this is rare
When a beloved hand is laid in ours,
When, jaded with the rush and glare
Of the interminable hours,
Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear,
When our world-deafen'd ear
Is by the tones of a lov'd voice caress'd
A bolt is shot back somewhere in our
breast,
And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again.
The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies
plain,
And what we mean, we say, and what we
would, we know.
A man becomes aware of his life's flow,
And hears its winding murmur, and he sees
The meadows where it glides, the sun, the
breeze.
And there arrives a lull in the hot race
Wherein he doth for ever chase
The flying and elusive shadow, rest.
An air of coolness plays upon his face,
And an unwonted calm pervades his breast.
And then he thinks he knows
The hills where his life rose,
And the sea where it goes.
MEMORIAL VERSES
APRIL, 1850
GOETHE in Weimar sleeps, and Greece,
Long since, saw Byron's struggle cease.
But one such death remain'd to come ;
The last poetic voice is dumb
We stand to-day by Wordsworth's tomb,
When Byron's eyes were shut in death,
We bow'd our head and held our breath.
He taught us little ; but our soul
Had felt him like the thunder's roll.
With shivering heart the strife we saw
Of passion with eternal law ;
And yet with reverential awe
W^e watch 'd the fount of fiery life
Which serv'd for that Titanic strife.
When Goethe's death was told, we said :
Sunk, then, is Europe's sagest head.
Physician of the iron age,
Goethe has done his pilgrimage.
He took the suffering human race,
He read each wound, each weakness clear :
And struck his finger on the place,
And said : Thou attest here, and here !
He look'd on Europe's dying hour
Of fitful dream and feverish power ;
His eye plunged down the weltering strife,
The turmoil of expiring life
He said : The end is everywhere,
Art still has truth, take refuge there I
And he was happy, if to know
Causes of things, and far below
His feet to see the lurid flow
Of terror, and insane distress,
And headlong fate, be happiness.
And Wordsworth ! Ah, pale ghosts, re
joice !
For never has such soothing voice
Been to your shadowy world convey'd,
Since erst, at morn, some wandering shade
Heard the clear song of Orpheus come
Through Hades, and the mournful gloom.
Wordsworth has gone from us and ye,
Ah, may ye feel his voice as we !
He too upon a wintery clime
Had fallen on this iron time
Of doubts, disputes, distractions, fears.
He found us when the age had bound
Our souls in its benumbing round ;
He spoke, and loos'd our hearts in tears.
MATTHEW ARNOLD
229
He laid us as we lay at birth
On the cool flowery lap of earth,
Smiles broke from us, and we had ease ;
The hills were round us, and the breeze
Went o'er the sun-lit fields again ;
Our foreheads felt the wind and rain.
Our youth return'd ; for there was shed
On spirits that had long been dead,
Spirits dried up and closely furl'd,
The freshness of the early world.
Ah ! since dark days still bring to light
Man's prudence and man's fiery might,
Time may restore us in his course
Goethe's sage mind and Byron's force ;
But where will Europe's latter hour
Again find Wordsworth's healing power ?
Others will teach us how to dare,
And against fear our breast to steel ;
Others will strengthen us to bear
But who, ah ! who, will make us feel ?
The cloud of mortal destiny,
Others will front it fearlessly
But who, like him, will put it by ?
Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave !
Sing him thy best ! for few or none
Hears thy voice right, now he is gone.
GEIST'S GRAVE
FOUR years ! and didst thou stay above
The ground, which hides thee now, but four?
And all that life, and all that love,
Were crowded, Geist ! into no more ?
Only four years those winning ways,
Which make me for thy presence yearn,
Call'd us to pet thee or to praise,
Dear little friend ! at every turn ?
That loving heart, that patient soul,
Had they indeed no longer span,
To run their course, and reach their goal,
And read their homily to man ?
That liquid, melancholy eye,
From whose pathetic, soul-fed springs
Seem'd urging the Virgilian cry, l
The sense of tears in mortal things
That steadfast, mournful strain, consol'd
By spirits gloriously gay,
And temper of heroic mould
What, was four years their whole short day ?
Yes, only four ! and not the course
Of all the centuries yet to come,
And not the infinite resource
Of Nature, with her countless sum
Of figures, with her fulness vast
Of new creation evermore,
Can ever quite repeat the past,
Or just thy little self restore.
Stern law of every mortal let !
Which man, proud man, finds hard to
bear,
And builds himself I know not what
Of second life I know not where.
But thou, when struck thine hour to go,
On us, who stood despondent by,
A meek last glance of love didst throw,
And humbly lay thee down to die.
Yet would we keep thee in our heart
Would fix our favorite on the scene,
Nor let thee utterly depart
And be as if thou ne'er hadst beeu.
And so there rise these lines of verse
On lips that rarely form them now ;
While to each other we rehearse :
Such ways, such arts, such looks hadst thou I
We stroke thy broad brown paws again,
We bid thee to thy vacant chair,
We greet thee by the window-pane,
We hear thy scuffle on the stair.
We see the flaps of thy large ears
Quick rais'd to ask which way we go ;
Crossing the frozen lake, appears
Thy small black figure on the snow !
Nor to us only art thou dear
Who mourn thee in thine English home J
Thou hast thine absent master's tear,
Dropp'd by the far Australian foam.
Thy memory lasts both here and there,
And thou shalt live as long as we.
And after that thou dost not care !
In us was all the world to thee.
Yet, fondly zealous for thy fame,
Even to a date beyond our own
We strive to carry down thy name,
By mounded turf, and graven stcne.
Buiit lacriuuc return !
23
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
We lay thee, close within our reach,
Here, where the grass is smooth and warm,
Between the holly and the beech,
Where oft we watch'd thy couchant form,
Asleep, yet lending half an ear
To travellers on the Portsmouth road ;
There build we thee, O guardian dear,
Mark'd with a stone, thy last abode !
Then some, who through this garden pass,
When we too, like thyself, are clay,
Shall see thy grave upon the grass,
And stop before the stone, and say :
People who lived here long ago
Did by this stone, it seems, intend
To name for future times to know
The dachs-hound, Geist, their little friend.
POPE AT TWICKENHAM
BEYOND a hundred years and more,
A garden lattice like a door
Stands open in the sun,
Admitting fitful winds that set
Astir the fragrant mignonette
In waves of speckled dun :
Sweet waves, above whose odorous flow
Red roses bud, red roses blow,
In beds that gem the lawn
Enamell'd rings and stars of flowers,
By summer beams and vernal showers
From earth nutritious drawn.
Within the broad bay-window, there,
Lo ! huddled in his easy-chair,
One hand upon his knee,
A hand so thin, so wan, so frail,
It tells of pains and griefs a tale,
A small bent form I see.
The day is fair, the hour is noon,
From neighboring thicket thrills the boon
The nuthatch yields in song :
All drench'd with recent rains, the leaves
Are dripping drip the sheltering eaves,
The dropping notes among.
And twinkling diamonds in the grass
Show where the flitting zephyrs pass,
That shake the green blades dry ;
And golden radiance fills the air
And gilds the floating gossamer
That glints and trembles by.
Yet, blind to each familiar grace,
Strange anguish on his pallid face,
And eyes of dreamful hue,
Stent
That lonely man sits brooding there,
Still huddled in his easy-chair,
With memories life will rue.
Where bay might crown that honor'd
head,
A homely crumpled nightcap spread
Half veils the careworn brows ;
In morning-gown of rare brocade
His puny shrunken shape array'd
His sorrowing soul avows :
Avows in every dropping line
Dejection words not thus define
So eloquent of woe ;
Yet never to those mournful eyes,
The heart's full-brimming fountains, rise
Sweet tears to overflow.
No token here of studied grief,
But plainest signs that win belief,
A simple scene and true.
Beside the mourner's chair display'd,
The matin meal's slight comforts laid
Trimly the board bestrew.
'Mid silvery sheen of burnish'd plate,
The chill'd and tarnish'd chocolate
On snow-white damask stands ;
Untouch'd the trivial lures remain
In dainty pink-tinged porcelain,
Still ranged by usual hands.
A drowsy bee above the cream
Hums loitering in the sunny gleam
That tips each rim with gold ;
A checker'd maze of light and gloom
Floats in the quaintly-litter'd room
With varying charms untold.
KENT ROSCOE CORY
Why sits that silent watcher there,
Still brooding with that face of care,
That gaze of tearless pain ?
What bonds of woe his spirit bind,
What treasure lost can leave In-hind
Such stings within his brain ?
He dreams of one who lies above,
He never more in life can love
That mother newly dead ;
He waits the artist-friend whose skill
Shall catch the angel-beauty still
Upon her features spread.
A reverent sorrow fills the air,
And makes a throne of grief the chair
Where filial genius mourns :
Death proving still, at direst need,
Life's sceptre-wand a broken reed,
Love's wreath a crown of thorns.
JDiHiam tfatotodl ftotfcoc
TO LA SANSCCEUR
I KNOW not how to call you light,
Since I myself was lighter ;
Nor can you blame my changing plight
Who were the first inviter.
I know not which began to range
Since we were never constant ;
And each when each began to change
Was found a weak remonstrant.
But this I know, the God of Love
Doth shake his hand against us,
And scorning says we ne'er did prove
True passion but pretences.
THE MASTER-CHORD
LIKE a musician that with flying finger
Startles the voice of some new instrument,
And, though he know that in one string are
blent
All its extremes of sound, yet still doth lin
ger
Among the lighter threads, fearing to start
The deep soul of that one melodious wire,
Lest it, uuanswering, dash his high desire,
And spoil the hopes of his expectant heart ;
Thus, with my mistress oft conversing, I
Stir every lighter theme with careless voice,
Gathering sweet music and celestial joys
From the harmonious soul o'er which I fly ;
Yet o'er the one deep master-chord I hover,
And dare not stoop, fearing to tell I love
her.
EARTH
SAD is my lot ; among the shining spheres
Wheeling, I weave incessant day and night,
And ever, in my never-ending flight,
Add woes to woes, and count up tears on
tears.
Young wives' and new-born infants' hapless
biers
Lie on my breast, a melancholy sight ;
Fresh griefs abhor my fresh returning light ;
Pain and remorse and want fill up my yean.
My happier children's farther-piercing eye*
Into the blessed solvent future climb,
And knit the threads of joy and hope and
warning ;
But I, the ancient mother, am not wise,
And, shut within the blind obscure of time,
Roll on from morn to night, and on from
night to morning.
MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH
You promise heavens free from strife,
Pure truth, and perfect change of will ;
But sweet, sweet is this human life,
So sweet, I fain would breathe it
still ;
Your chilly stars I can forego,
This warm kind world is all I
know.
You say there is no substance here,
One great reality above :
Back from that void I shrink in fear,
And child-like hide myself in lore.
232
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Show me what angels feel. Till then,
I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
You bid me lift my mean desires
From faltering lips and fitful veins
To sexless souls, ideal quires,
Unwearied voices, wordless strains :
My mind with fonder welcome owns
One dear dead friend's remember' d tones.
Forsooth the present we must give
To that which cannot pass away ;
All beauteous things for which we live
By laws of time and space decay.
But oh, the very reason why
I clasp them, is because they die.
HERACLEITUS 1
THEY told me, Heracleitus, they told me
you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and
bitter tears to shed.
I wept, as I remember'd how often you
and I
Had tir'd the sun with talking and sent him
down the sky.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old
Carian guest,
A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at
rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightin
gales, awake ;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them
he cannot take.
A POOR FRENCH SAILOR'S
SCOTTISH SWEETHEART
I CANNOT forget my Joe,
I bid him be mine in sleep ;
But battle and woe have changed him so
There 's nothing to do but weep.
My mother rebukes me yet,
And I never was meek before ;
His jacket is wet, his lip cold set,
He '11 trouble our home no more.
Oh, breaker of reeds that bend !
Oh, quencher of tow that smokes !
I 'd rather descend to my sailor friend
Than prosper with lofty folks.
I 'm lying beside the gowan,
My Joe in the English bay ;
I 'm Annie Rowan, his Annie Rowan,
He called me his Bien-Aime'e.
I '11 hearken to all you quote,
Though I 'd rather be deaf and free ;
The little he wrote in the sinking boat
Is Bible and charm for me.
2turt)or Onfounti
EPITAPH OF DIONYSIA
HERE doth Dionysia lie :
She whose little wanton foot,
Tripping (ah, too carelessly ! ),
Touch'd this tomb, and fell into 't.
Trip no more shall she, nor fall.
And her trippings were so few !
Summers only eight in all
Had the sweet child wander'd through.
But, already, life's few suns
Love's strong seeds had ripen'd warm.
All her ways were winning ones ;
All her cunning was to charm.
And the fancy, in the flower,
While the flesh was in the bud,
Childhood's dawning sex did dower
With warm gusts of womanhood.
Oh what joys by hope begun,
Oh what kisses kiss'd by thought,
What love-deeds by fancy done,
Death to endless dust hath wrought !
Had the fates been kind as thou,
Who, till now, was never cold,
Once Love's aptest scholar, now
Thou hadst been his teacher bold j
After CaUimacbu*.
COVENTRY PATMORE
233
But, if buried seeds upthrow
Fruits and flowers ; if flower and fruit
By their nature fitly show
What the seeds are, whence they shoot,
Dionysia, o'er this tomb,
Where thy buried beauties be,
From their dust shall spring and bloom
Loves and graces like to thee.
Cobcntcp fpatmore
FROM "THE ANGEL IN THE
HOUSE"
THE DEAN'S CONSENT
THE Ladies rose. I held the door,
And sigh'd, as her departing grace
Assur'd me that she always wore
A heart as happy as her face ;
And, jealous of the winds that blew,
I dreaded, o'er the tasteless wine,
What fortune momently might do
To hurt the hope that she 'd be mine.
Towards my mark the Dean's talk set :
He praised my "Notes on Abury,"
Read when the Association met
At Sarum ; he was pleas'd to see
I had not stopp'd, as some men had,
At Wrangler and Prize Poet ; last,
He hop'd the business was not bad
I came about : then the wine pass'd.
A full glass prefaced my reply :
I lov d his daughter, Honor ; I told
My estate and prospects ; might I try
To win her ? At my words so bold
My sick heart sank. Then he : He gave
His glad consent, if I could get
Her love. A dear, good Girl ! she 'd
have
Only three thousand pounds as yet ;
More by and by. Yes, his good will
Should go with me ; he would not stir ;
He and my father in old time still
Wish'd I should one day marry her ;
it God so seldom lets us take
Our chosen pathway, when it lies
[n steps that either mar or make
Or alter others' destinies,
mt, though his blessing and his pray'r
Had help'd, should help, my suit, yet he
Left all to me, his passive share
Consent and opportunity.
My chance, he hop'd, was good : I 'd .
Some name already ; friends and place
Appear'd within my reach, but none
Her mind and manners would not grace.
Girls love to see the men in whom
They invest their vanities adniir'd ;
Besides, where goodness is, there room
For good to work will be desir'd.
'T was so with one now pass'd away ;
And what she was at twenty-two,
Honor was now ; and he might say
Mine was a choice I could not rue.
%
He ceas'd, and gave his hand. He had
won
(And all my heart was in my word)
From me the affection of a son,
Whichever fortune Heaven couferr'd !
Well, well, would I take more wine ? Then
8
To her ; she makes tea on the lawn
These fine warm afternoons. And so
We went whither my soul was drawn ;
And her light-hearted ignorance
Of interest in our discourse
Fill'd me with love, and seem'd to enhance
Her beauty with pathetic force,
As, through the flowery mazes sweet,
Fronting the wind that tint tn-M blithe,
And lov'd her shape, and kiss'd her feet,
Shown to their insteps proud and lithr,
She approach'd, all mildness and young
trust,
And ever her chaste and noble air
Gave to love's feast its choicest gust,
A vague, faint augury of despair.
HONORIA'S SURRENDER
From little signs, like little stare,
Whose faint impression on the sense
The very looking straight at man,
Or only seen by confluence ;
From instinct of a mutual thought,
Whence sanctity of manners flow'd j
234
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
From chance unconscious, and from what
Concealment, overconscious, show'd ;
Her hand's less weight upon my arm,
Her lovelier mien ; that match'd with
this ;
I found, and felt with strange alarm,
I stood committed to my bliss.
I grew assur'd, before I ask'd,
That she 'd be mine without reserve,
And in her unclaimed graces bask'd,
At leisure, till the time should serve,
With just enough of dread to thrill
The hope, and make it trebly dear ;
Thus loth to speak the word to kill
Either the hope or happy fear.
Till once, through lanes returning late,
Her laughing sisters lagg'd behind ;
And, ere we reach'd her father's gate,
We paus'd with one presentient mind ;
And, in the dim and perfum'd mist,
Their coming stay'd, who, friends to me,
And very women, lov'd to assist
Love's timid opportunity.
Twice rose, twice died my trembling word ;
The faint and frail Cathedral chimes
Spake time in music, and we heard
The chafers rustling in the limes.
Her dress, that touch'd me where I stood,
The warmth of her confided arm,
Her bosom's gentle neighborhood,
Her pleasure in her power to charm ;
Her look, her love, her form, her touch,
The least seem'd most by blissful turn,
Blissful but that it pleas'd too much,
And taught the wayward soul to yearn.
It was as if a harp with wires
Was travers'd by the breath I drew ;
And, oh, sweet meeting of desires,
She, answering, own'd that she lov'd too.
Honoria was to be my bride !
The hopeless heights of hope were scal'd ;
The svimmit won, I paus'd and sigh'd,
As if success itself had fail'd.
It seem'd as if my lips approach'd
To touch at Tantalus' reward,
And rashly on Eden life encroach'd,
Half-blinded by the flaming sword.
The whole world's wealthiest and its best,
So fiercely sought, appear'd, when found,
Poor in its need to be possess'd,
Poor from its very want of bound.
My queen was crouching at my side,
By love unsceptred and brought low,
Her awful garb of maiden pride
All melted into tears like snow ;
The mistress of my reverent thought,
Whose praise was all I ask'd of fame,
In my close-watch'd approval sought
Protection as from danger and blame j
Her soul, which late I lov'd to invest
With pity for my poor desert,
Buried its face within my breast,
Like a pet fawn by hunters hurt.
THE MARRIED LOVER
Why, having won her, do I woo ?
Because her spirit's vestal grace
Provokes me always to pursue,
But, spirit-like, eludes embrace ;
Because her womanhood is such
That, as on court-days subjects kiss
The Queen's hand, yet so near a touch
Affirms no mean familiarness,
Nay, rather marks more fair the height
Which can with safety so neglect
To dread, as lower ladies might,
That grace could meet with disrespect,
Thus she with happy favor feeds
Allegiance from a love so high
That thence no false conceit proceeds
Of difference bridged, or state put by ;
Because, although in act and word
As lowly as a wife can be,
Her manners, when they call me lord,
Remind me 't is by courtesy ;
Not with her least consent of will,
Which would my proud affection hurt,
But by the noble style that still
Imputes an unattain'd desert ;
Because her gay and lofty brows,
When all is won which hope can ask,
Reflect a light of hopeless snows
That bright in virgin ether bask ;
Because, though free of the outer court
I am, this Temple keeps its shrine
Sacred to Heaven ; because, in short,
She 's not and never can be mine.
Feasts satiate ; stars distress with height ;
Friendship means well, 'but misses reach,
And wearies in its best delight
Vex'd with the vanities of speech ;
Too long regarded, roses even
Afflict the mind with fond unrest ;
And to converse direct with Heaven
Is oft a labor in the breast ;
COVENTRY PATMORE
2 35
Whate'er the up-looking soul admires,
Whute'er the senses' banquet be,
Fatigues at last with vain desires,
Or sickens by satiety ;
But truly my delight was more
In her to whom I 'in bound for aye
Yesterday than the day before,
And more to-day than yesterday.
THE GIRL OF ALL PERIODS
"AND even our women," lastly grumbles
Ben,
" Leaving their nature, dress and talk like
men ! "
A damsel, as our train stops at Five Ashes,
Down to the station in a dog-cart dashes.
A footman buys her ticket, " Third class,
parly ; "
And, in huge-button'd coat and "Cham
pagne Charley "
And such scant manhood else as use allows
her,
Her two shy knees bound in a single trouser,
With, 'twixt her shapely lips, a violet
Perch'd as a proxy for a cigarette,
She takes her window in our smoking car
riage,
And scans us, calmly scorning men and
marriage.
Ben frowns in silence ; older, I know bet
ter
Than to read ladies 'havior in the letter.
This aping man is crafty Love's devising
To make the woman's difference more sur
prising ;
And, as for feeling wroth at such rebelling,
Who 'd scold the child for now and then
repelling
Lures with " I won't ! " or for a moment's
straying
In its sure growth towards more full obey
ing ?
"Yes, she had read the 'Legend of the
Ages,'
And George Sand too, skipping the wicked
pages."
And, whilst we talk'd, her protest firm and
perky
Against mankind, I thought, grew lax and
jerky ;
And, at a compliment, her mouth's corn-
pressure
Nipp'd in its birth a little laugh of pleas-
And smiles, forbidden her lips, as weakness
horrid,
Broke, in grave lights, from eyes and chin
and forehead ;
And, as I pusb'd kind 'vantage 'gainst the
scorner,
The two shy knees press'd shyer to the cor
ner ;
And Ben began to talk with her, the rather
Because he found out that be knew her
father,
Sir Francis Applegarth, of Fenny Comnton,
And danced once with her sister Maude at
Brompton ;
And then he star'd until he quite confus'd
her,
More pleas'd with her than I, who but ex-
cus'd her ;
And, when she got out, be, with sheepish
glances,
Said he 'd stop too, and call on old Sir
Francis.
FROM "THE UNKNOWN EROS"
THE TOYS
MY little son, who look'd from thought
ful eyes
And mov'd and spoke in quiet grown-up
wise,
Having my law the seventh time disobey'd,
I struck him, and dismiss'd
With hard words and unkiss'd,
His Mother, who was patient, being dead.
Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder
sleep,
I visited his bed,
But found him slumbering deep,
With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet
From his late sobbing wet.
And I, with moan,
Kissing away his tears, left others of my
own ;
For, on a table drawn beside his head,
He had put, within his reach,
A box of counters and a red-vein'd stone,
A piece of glass abraded by the beach,
And six or seven shells,
A bottle with bluebells
And two French copper coins, ranged there
with careful art,
To comfort his sad heart.
So when that night I pray'd
To God, I wept, and said :
236
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath,
Not vexing Thee in death,
And Thou rememberest of what toys
We made our joys,
How weakly understood
Thy great commanded good,
Then, fatherly not less
Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the
clay,
Thou 'It leave Thy wrath, and say,
"I will be sorry for their childishness."
THE TWO DESERTS
Not greatly mov'd with awe am 1
To learn that we may spy
Five thousand firmaments beyond our own.
The best that 'a known
Of the heavenly bodies does them credit
small.
View'd close, the Moon's fair ball
Is of ill objects worst,
A corpse in Night's highway, naked, fire-
scarr'd, accurst ;
And now they tell
That the Sun is plainly seen to boil and
burst
Too horribly for hell.
So, judging from these two,
As we must do,
The Universe, outside our living Earth,
Was all conceiv'd in the Creator's mirth,
Forecasting at the time Man's spirit deep,
To make dirt cheap.
Put by the Telescope !
Better without it man may see,
Stretch'd awful in the hush'd midnight,
The ghost of his eternity.
Give me the nobler glass that swells to the
eye
The things which near us lie,
Till Science rapturously hails,
In the minutest water-drop,
A torment of innumerable tails.
These at the least do live.
But rather give
A mind not much to pry
Beyond our royal-fair estate
Betwixt these deserts blank of small and
great.
Wonder and beauty our own courtiers are,
Pressing to catch our gaze,
And out of obvious ways
Ne'er wandering far.
REGINA OELI
SAY, did his sisters wonder what could
Joseph see
In a mild, silent little Maid like thee ?
And was it awful, in that narrow house,
With God for Babe and Spouse ?
Nay, like thy simple, female sort, each one
Apt to find Him in Husband and in Son,
Nothing to thee came strange in this.
Thy wonder was but wondrous bliss :
Wondrous, for, though
True Virgin lives not but does know,
(Howbeit none ever yet confess'd,)
That God lies really in her breast,
Of thine He made His special nest !
And so
All mothers worship little feet,
And kiss the very ground they 've trod ;
But, ah, thy little Baby sweet
Who was indeed thy God !
IBaltct
DAUGHTERS OF PHILISTIA
FROM "OLRIG GRANGE"
LADY ANNE DEWHURST on a crimson couch
Lay, with a rug of sable o'er her knees,
In a bright boudoir in Belgravia ;
Most perfectly array'd in shapely robe
Of sumptuous satin, lit up here and there
With scarlet touches, and with costly lace,
Nice-finger'd maidens knotted in Brabant ;
And all around her spread magnificence
Of bronzes, Sevres vases, marquetrie,
Rare buhl, and bric-a-brac of every kind,
From Rome and Paris and the centuries
Of far-off beauty. All of goodly color,
Or graceful form that could delight the
eye,
In orderly disorder lay around,
And flowers with perfume scented the
warm air.
WALTER C. SMITH
237
Stately and large and beautiful was she
Spite of her sixty summers, with an eye
Train'd to soft languors, that could also
Hash,
Keen as a sword and sharp a black
bright eye,
Deep sunk beneath an arch of jet. She had
I A weary look, and yet the weariness
Seeni'd not so native as the worldliness
Which blended with it. Weary and
worldly, she
Had quite resign'd herself to misery
I In this sad vale of tears, but fully meant
I To nurse her sorrow in a sumptuous fashion,
And make it an expensive luxury ;
I For nothing she esteem'd that nothing cost.
Beside her, on a table round, inlaid
With precious stones by Roman art de-
si gn'd,
Lay phials, scent, a novel and a Bible,
| A pill box, and a wine glass, and a book
i On the Apocalypse ; for she was much
1 Addicted unto physic and religion,
I And her physician had prescrib'd for her
I Jellies and wines and cheerful Literature.
The Book on the Apocalypse was writ
By her chosen pastor, and she took the
novel
With the dry sherry, and the pills pre
scrib'd.
A gorgeous, pious, comfortable life
Of misery she lived ; and all the sins
Of all her house, and all the nation's sins,
And all shortcomings of the Church and
State,
And all the sins of all the world beside,
Bore as her special cross, confessing them
Vicariously day by day, and then
She comforted her heart, which needed it,
With bric-a-brac and jelly and old wine.
Beside the fire, her elbow on the mantel,
And forehead resting on her finger-tips,
Shading a face where sometimes loom'd a
frown,
And sometimes flash'd a gleam of bitter
scorn,
Her daughter stood; no more a graceful
girl,
But in the glory of her womanhood,
Stately and haughty. One who might have
been
A noble woman in a nobler world,
But now was only woman of her world ;
With just enough of better thought to
know
It was not noble, and despise it all,
And most herself for making it her all.
A woman, complex, intricate, itivolv'd ;
Wrestling with self, yet still by self sub
dued ;
Scorning herself for being what she was,
And yet unable to be that she would ;
Uneasy with the sense of possible good
Never attain'd, nor sought, except in fit*
Ending in failures ; conscious, too, of power
Which found no purpose to direct its force,
And so came back upon herself, and grew
An inward fret. The caged bird some
times diish'd
Against the wires, and sometimes sat and
pin'd,
But mainly peck'd her sugar, and eyed her
glass,
And trill'd her graver thoughts away in
song.
Mother and daughter yet a childless
mother,
And motherless her daughter ; for the
world
Had gash'd a chasm between, impassable,
And they had nought in common, neither
love,
Nor hate, nor anything except a name.
Yet both were of the world; and she not
least
Whose world was the religious one, and
stretch'd
A kind of isthmus 'tween the Devil and
God,
A slimy, oozy mud, where mandrakes grew,
Ghastly, with intertwisted roots, and things
Amphibious haunted, and the leathern bat
Flicker'd about its twilight evermore.
THE SELF-EXILED
THERE came a soul to the gate of Heaven
Gliding slow
A soul that was ransom'd and forgiven,
And white as snow :
And the angels all were silent.
A mystic light beam'd from the face
Of the radiant maid,
But there also lay on its tender grace
A mystic shade :
And the angels all were silent
238
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
As sunlit clouds by a zephyr borne
Seem not to stir,
So to the golden gates of morn
They carried her :
And the angels all were silent.
" Now open the gate, and let her in,
And fling it wide,
For she has been cleans'd from stain of
sin,"
St. Peter cried :
And the angels all were silent.
" Though I am cleans'd from stain of sin,"
She answer'd low,
" I came not hither to enter in,
Nor may I go : "
And the angels all were silent.
" I come," she said, " to the pearly door,
To see the Throne
Where sits the Lamb on the Sapphire Floor,
With God alone : "
And the angels all were silent.
" I come to hear the new song they sing
To Him that died,
And note where the healing waters spring
From His pierced side : "
And the angels all were silent.
" But I may not enter there," she said,
." For I must go
Across the gulf where the guilty dead
Lie in their woe : "
And the angels all were silent.
" If I enter heaven I may not pass
To where they be.
Though the wail of their bitter pain, alas !
Tormenteth me : "
And the angels all were silent.
* If I enter heaven I may not speak
My soul's desire
For them that are lying distraught and
weak
In flaming fire : "
And the angels all were silent.
" I had a brother, and also another
Whom I lov'd well ;
What if, in anguish, they curse each other
In the depths of hell ? "
And the angels all were silent.
" How could I touch the golden harps,
When all my praise
Would be so wrought with grief-full warps
Of their sad days ? "
And the angels all were silent.
" How love the lov'd who are sorrowing,
And yet be glad ?
How sing the songs ye are fain to sing,
While I am sad ? "
And the angels all were silent.
" Oh, clear as glass is the golden street
Of the city fair,
And the tree of life it maketh sweet
The lightsome air : "
And the angels all were silent.
" And the white-rob'd saints with their
crowns and palms
Are good to see,
And oh, so grand are the sounding psalms 1
But not for me : "
And the angels all were silent.
"I come where there is no night," she said,
" To go away,
And help, if I yet may help, the dead
That have no day."
And the angels all were silent.
St. Peter he turned the keys about,
And answer M grim :
" Can you love the Lord, and abide with
out,
Afar from Him?"
And the angels all were silent.
" Can you love the Lord who died for you,
And leave the place
Where His glory is all disclos'd to view,
And tender grace ? "
And the angels all were silent.
" They go not out who come in here ;
It were not meet :
Nothing they lack, for He is here,
And bliss complete."
And the angels all were silent.
" Should I be nearer Christ," she said,
" By pitying less
The sinful living or woeful dead
In their helplessness ? "
And the angels all were silent.
W. C. SMITH PALGRAVE
239
Should I be liker Christ were I
To love no more
The lov'd, who in their anguish lie
Outside the door ? "
And the aiigels all were silent.
11 Did He not hang on the curs'd tree,
And bear its shame,
And clasp to His heart, for love of me,
My guilt and blame ? "
And the angels all were silent.
" Should I be liker, nearer Him,
Forgetting this,
Singing all day with the Seraphim,
In selfish bliss ? "
And the angels all were silent.
The Lord Himself stood by the gate,
And heard her speak
Those tender words compassionate,
Gentle and meek :
And the angels all were silent
Now, pity is the touch of God
In human hearts,
And from that way He ever trod
He ne'er departs :
And the angels all were silent
And He said, " Now will I go with yon,
Dear child of love,
I am weary of all this glory, too,
In heaven above : "
And the angels all were silent
" We will go seek and save the lost,
If they will hear,
They who are worst but need me most,
And all are dear : "
And the angels were not silent
f rating urnec $algratoe
THE ANCIENT AND MODERN
MUSES
THE monument outlasting bronze
Was promis'd well by bards of old ;
The lucid outline of their lay
Its sweet precision keeps for aye,
Fix'd in the ductile language-gold.
But we who work with smaller skill,
And less refin'd material mould,
This close conglomerate English speech,
Bequest of many tribes, that each
Brought here and wrought at from of
old,
Residuum rough, eked out by rhyme,
Barbarian ornament uncouth,
Our hope is less to last through Art
Than deeper searching of the heart,
Than broader range of utter'd truth.
One keen-cut group, one deed or aim
Athenian Sophocles could show,
And rest content ; but Shakespeare's
stage
Must hold the glass to every age,
A thousand forms and passions glow
Upon the world-wide canvas. So
With larger scope our art we play ;
And if the crown be harder won,
Diviner rays around it run,
With strains of fuller harmony.
PRO MORTUIS
WHAT should a man desire to leave ?
A flawless work ; a noble life :
Some music harmoniz'd from strife,
Some finish'd thing, ere the slack hands at
eve
Drop, should be his to leave.
One gem of song, defying age ;
A hard-won fight ; a well-work'd farm;
A law no guile can twist to bane ;
Some tale, as our lost Thackeray's bright,
or sage
As the just Hallam's page.
Or, in life's homeliest, meanest spot,
With temperate step from year to year
To move within his little sphere,
Leaving a pure name to be known, or not,
This is a true man's lot
240
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
He dies : he leaves the deed or name,
A gift forever to his land,
In trust to Friendship's prudent hand,
Round 'gainst all adverse shocks to guard
his fame,
Or to the world proclaim.
But the imperfect thing or thought,
The crudities and yeast of youth,
The dubious doubt, the twilight truth,
The work that for the passing day was
wrought,
The schemes that came to nought,
The sketch half-way 'twixt verse and
prose
That mocks the finish'd picture true,
The quarry whence the statue grew,
The scaffolding 'neath which the palace rose,
The vague abortive throes
And fever-fits of joy or gloom :
In kind oblivion let them be !
Nor has the dead worse foe than he
Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's
room,
And piles them on his tomb.
Ah, 't is but little that the best,
Frail children of a fleeting hour,
Can leave of perfect fruit or flower !
Ah, let all else be graciously supprest
When man lies down to rest !
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
1845
GENTLE and grave, in simple dress,
And features by keen mountain air
Moulded to solemn ruggedness,
The man we came to see sat there :
Not apt for speech, nor quickly stirr'd
Unless when heart to heart replied;
A bearing equally remov'd
From vain display or sullen pride.
The sinewy frame yet spoke of one
Known to the hillsides : on his head
Some five-and-seventy winters gone
Their crown of perfect white had shed:
As snow-tipp'd summits toward the sun
In calm of lonely radiance press,
Touch'd by the broadening light of death
With a serener pensiveness.
O crown of venerable age !
O brighter crown of well-spent years i
The bard, the patriot, and the sage,
The heart that never bow'd to fears !
That was an age of soaring souls ;
Yet none with a more liberal scope
Survey'd the sphere of human things j
None with such manliness of hope.
Others, perchance, as keenly felt,
As musically sang as he ;
To Nature as devoutly knelt,
Or toil'd to serve humanity :
But none with those ethereal notes,
That star-like sweep of self-control ;
The insight into worlds unseen,
The lucid sanity of soul.
The fever of our fretful life,
The autumn poison of the air,
The soul with its own self at strife,
He saw and felt, but could not share :
With eye made clear by pureness, pierced
The life of Man and Nature through ;
And read the heart of- common things,
Till new seein'd old, and old was new.
To his own self not always just,
Bound in the bonds that all men share,
Confess the failings as we must,
The lion's mark is always there !
Nor any song so pure, so great
Since his, who closed the sightless eyes,
Our Homer of the war in Heaven,
To wake in his own Paradise.
O blaring trumpets of the world !
O glories, in their budding sere !
O flaunting roll of Fame unfurl'd !
Here was the king the hero here !
It was a strength and joy for life
In that 'great presence once to be ;
That on the boy he gently smil'd,
That those white hands were laid on me.
A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN
FOR NIGHT AND MORNING
THOU that once, on mother's knee,
Wast a little one like me,
When I wake or go to bed
Lay thy hands about my head :
Let me feel thee very near,
Jesus Christ, our Saviour dear.
PALGRAVE HUXLEY
241
Be beside me in the light,
Close by me through all the night ;
Make me gentle, kind, and true,
Do what mother bids me do ;
Help and dheer me when I fret,
And forgive when I forget.
Once wast thou in cradle laid,
Baby bright in manger-shade,
With the oxen and the cows,
And the lambs outside the house :
Now thou art above the sky :
Canst thou hear a baby cry ?
Thou art nearer when we pray,
Since thou art so far away ;
Thou my little hymn wilt hear,
Jesus Christ, our Saviour dear,
Thou that once, on mother's knee-,
Wast a little one like me.
A DANISH BARROW
ON THE EAST DEVON COAST
LIE still, old Dane, below thy heap !
A sturdy-back and sturdy-limb,
Whoe'er he was, I warrant him
Upon whose mound the single sheep
Browses and tinkles in the sun,
Within the narrow vale alone.
Lie still, old Dane ! This restful scene
Suits well thy centuries of sleep :
The soft brown roots above thee creep,
The lotus flaunts bis ruddy sheen,
And, vain memento of the spot,
The turquoise-eyed forget-me-not.
Lie still i Thy mother-land herself
Would know thee not again : no more
The Raven from the northern shore
Hails the bold crew to push for pelf,
Through fire and blood and slaughtered
kings
'Neath the black terror of his wings.
And thou, thy very name is lost I
The peasant only knows that here
Bold Alfred scoop'd thy flinty bier,
And pray'd a foeman's prayer, and toil
His auburn head, and said, " One more
Of England's foes guards England's
shore,"
And turn'd and pass'd to other feats,
And left thee in thine iron robe,
To circle with the circling globe,
While Time's corrosive dewdrop eats
The giant warrior to a crust
Of earth in earth, and rust in rust
So lie : and let the children play
And sit like flowers upon thy grave
And crown with flowers, that hardly
have
A briefer blooming-tide than they ;
By hurrying years urged on to rest,
As thou, within the Mother's breast.
TENNYSON
(WESTMINSTER ABBEY: OCTOBER 12, 1892)
GIB DIESEN TODTEN MIR HERAUS
(The Minster speaks)
BRING me my dead !
To me that have grown,
Stone laid upon stone,
As the stormy brood
Of English blood
Has wax'd and spread
And fill'd the world,
With sails unf url'd ;
! I
With men that may not lie ;
With thoughts that cannot die.
Bring me my dead !
Into the storied hall,
Where I have garner'd all
My harvest without weed ;
My chosen fruits of goodly seed ,
And lay him gently aown among
The men of state, the men of song :
The men that would not suffer wrong :
The thought-worn chieftains of the mind 1
Head-servants of the human kind.
Don Carlos.
242
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Bring me my dead !
The autumn sun shall shed
Its beams athwart the bier's
Heap'd blooms : a many tears
Shall flow ; his words, in cadence sweet and
strong,
Shall voice the full hearts of the silent
throng.
Bring me my dead !
And oh ! sad wedded mourner, seeking still
For vauish'd hand clasp : drinking in thy
fill
Of holy grief ; forgive, that pious theft
Robs thee of all, save memories, left :
Not thine to kneel beside the grassy mound
While dies the western glow ; and all around
Is silence ; and the shadows closer creep
And whisper softly : All must fall asleep.
DORIS: A PASTORAL
I SAT with Doris, the shepherd-maiden ;
Her crook was laden with wreathed
flowers :
I sat and woo'd her, through sunlight
wheeling
And shadows stealing, for hours and
hours.
And she, my Doris, whose lap encloses
Wild summer-roses of sweet perfume,
The while I sued her, kept hush'd and
hearken'd,
Till shades had darken'd from gloss to
gloom.
She touch'd my shoulder with fearful finger;
She said, " We linger, we must not stay :
My flock 's in danger, my sheep will wan
der ;
Behold them yonder, how far they
stray ! "
I answer'd bolder, " Nay, let me hear you,
And still be near you, and still adore !
No wolf nor stranger will touch one year
ling :
Ah ! stay, my darling, a moment more ! "
She whisper'd, sighing, "There will be
sorrow
Beyond to-morrow, if I lose to-day ;
My fold unguarded, my flock unfolded,
I shall be scolded and sent away."
Said I, denying, " If they do miss you,
They ought to kiss you when you get
home ;
And well rewarded by friend and neighbor
Should be the labor from which you
" They might remember," she answer'd
meekly,
" That lambs are weakly, and sheep are
wild;
But if they love me, it 's none so fervent :
I am a servant, and not a child."
Then each hot ember glow'd within me,
And love did win me to swift reply :
" Ah ! do but prove me ; and none shall
bind you,
Nor fray nor find you, until I die."
She blush'd and started, and stood await
ing,
As if debating in dreams divine ;
But I did brave them ; I told her plainly
She doubted vainly, she must be mine.
So we, twin-hearted, from all the valley
Did rouse and rally her nibbling ewes ;
And homeward drave them, we two together,
Through blooming heather and gleaming
dews.
That simple duty fresh grace did lend her,
My Doris tender, my Doris true ;
That I, her warder, did always bless her,
And often press her to take her due.
And now in beauty she fills my dwelling,
With love excelling, and undefil'd ;
And love doth guard her, both fast and
fervent,
No more a servant, nor yet a child.
ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY
243
FROM "DOROTHY: A COUNTRY
STORY"
DOROTHY
DOROTHY goes with her pails to the ancient
well in the courtyard
Daily at gray of mom, daily ere twilight
at eve ;
Often and often again she winds at the
mighty old windlass,
Still with her strong red arms landing
the bucket aright :
Then, her beechen yoke press'd down on
her broad square shoulders,
Stately, erect, like a queen, she with her
burden returns :
She with her burden returns to the fields
that she loves, to the cattle
Lowing beside the troughs, welcoming
her and her pails.
Dorothy who is she ? She is only a ser-
vant-of-all-work ;
Servant at White Rose Farm, under the
cliff in the vale :
Under the sandstone cliff, where martins
build in the springtime,
Hard by the green level meads, hard by
the streams of the Yore.
Oh, what a notable lass is our Dolly, the
pride of the dairy !
Stalwart and tall as a man, strong as a
heifer to work :
Built for beauty, indeed, but certainly built
for labor
Witness her muscular arm, witness the
grip of her hand !
Weakly her mistress was, and weakly the
two little daughters ;
But by her master's side Dorothy wrought
like a son :
Wrought out of doors on the farm, and
labor'd in dairy and kitchen,
Doing the work of two ; help and sup
port of them all.
Rough were her broad brown hands, and
within, ah me ! they were horny ;
Rough were her thick ruddy arms,
shapely and round as they were ;
Rough too her glowing cheeks ; and her
sunburnt face and forehead
Browner than cairngorm seem'd, set in
her amber-bright hair.
Yet 't was a handsome, face ; the brautiful
regular features
Labor could never spoil, ignorance could
not degrade :
And in her clear blue eyes bright gleams
of intelligence lingered ;
And on her warm red mouth, Love might
have 'lighted and lain.
Never an unkind word nor a rude unseemly
expression
Came from that soft red mouth ; nor in
those sunny blue eyes
Lived there a look that belied the frankness
of innocent girlhood
Fearless, because it is pure ; gracious,
and gentle, and calm.
Have you not seen such a face, among rural
hardworking maidens
Born but of peasant stock, free from our
Dorothy's shame ?
Just such faces as hers a countenance
open and artless,
Where no knowledge appears, culture,
nor vision of grace ;
Yet which an open-air life and simple and
strenuous labor
Fills with a charm of its own precious,
and warm from the heart ?
Hers was full of that charm ; and besides,
was something ennobled,
Something adoru'd, by thoughts due to a
gentle descent :
So that a man should say, if he saw her
afield at the milking,
Or with her sickle at work reaping the
barley or beans,
" There is a strapping wench a lusty lass
of a thousand,
" Able to fend for herself, fit for the
work of a man ! "
But if he came more near, and she lifted
her face to behold him,
"Ah," he would cry, "what a change t
Surely a lady is here ! '
Yes if a lady be one who is gracious and
quiet in all things,
Thinking no evil at all, helpful wherever
she can ;
Then too at White Rose Farm, by the
martins' cliff in the valley,
There was a lady ; and she was but the
servant of all.
True, when she spoke, her speech was the
homely speech of the country ;
244
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Rough with quaint antique words, pic
turesque sayings of old :
And, for the things that she said, they were
nothing but household phrases
News of the poultry and kine, tidings of
village and home ;
But there was something withal in her
musical voice and her manner
Gave to such workaday talk touches of
higher degree.
So too, abroad and alone, when she saw the
sun rise o'er the meadows,
Or amid golden clouds saw him descend
ing at eve ;
Though no poetic thought, no keen and
rapturous insight,
Troubled her childlike soul, yet she could
wonder and gaze ;
Yet she could welcome the morn for its
beauty as well as its brightness
And, in the evening glow, think not of
supper alone.
COUNTRY KISSES
Curious, the ways of these folk of humble
and hardy condition :
Kisses, amongst ourselves, bless me, how
much they imply !
Ere you can come to a kiss, you must
scale the whole gamut of court
ship
Introduction first ; pretty attentions and
words ;
Tentative looks ; and at length, perhaps the
touch of a finger ;
Then the confession ; and then (if she al
low it) the kiss.
So that a kiss comes last 't is the crown
and seal of the whole thing ;
Passion avow'd by you, fondly accepted
by her.
But in our Dorothy's class, a kiss only
marks the beginning :
Comes me a light-hearted swain, think
ing of nothing at all ;
Flings his fustian sleeve round the ample
waist of the maiden ;
Kisses her cheek, and she laughingly
thrusts him away.
Why, 't is a matter of course ; every good-
looking damsel expects it ;
'T is but the homage, she feels, paid to her
beauty by men :
So that, at Kiss-in-the-Ring an innocent
game and a good one
Strangers in plenty may kiss : nay, she
pursues, in her turn.
DOROTHY'S ROOM
'T was but a poor little room : a farm-
servant's loft in a garret ;
One small window and door ; never a
chimney at all ;
One little stool by the bed, and a remnant
of cast-away carpet ;
But on the floor, by the wall, carefully
dusted and bright,
Stood the green-painted box, our Dorothy's
closet and wardrobe,
Holding her treasures, her all all that
she own'd in the world !
Linen and hosen were there, coarse linen
and home-knitted hosen ;
Handkerchiefs bought at the fdir, aprons
and smocks not a few ;
Kirtles for warmth when afield, and frocks
for winter and summer,
Blue - spotted, lilac, gray ; cotton and
woolen and serge ;
All her simple attire, save the clothes she
felt most like herself in
Rough, coarse workaday clothes, fit for
a laborer's wear.
There was her Sunday array the boots,
and the shawl, and the bonnet,
Solemnly folded apart, not to be lightly
assumed ;
There was her jewelry, too : 't was a brooch
(she had worn it this evening)
Made of cairngorm stone really too
splendid for her !
Which on a Martlemas Day Mr. Robert
had bought for a fairing :
Little she thought, just then, how she
would value it now !
As for her sewing gear, her housewife, her
big brass thimble,
Knitting and suchlike work, such as her
fingers could do,
That was away downstairs, in a dresser-
drawer in the kitchen,
Ready for use of a night, when she was
tidied and clean.
Item, up there in the chest were her books ;
" The Dairyman's Daughter ; "
Ballads; "The Olney Hymns;" Bible
and Prayer-book, of course :
ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY
4S
That was her library ; these were the limits
of Dorothy's reading ;
Wholesome, but scanty indeed : was it
then all that she knew ?
Nay, for like other good girls, she had
profited much by her schooling
Under the mighty three Nature, and
Labor, and Life :
Mightier they than books ; if books could
have only come after,
Thoughts of instructed minds filtering
down into hers.
That was impossible now ; what she had
been, she was, and she would be ;
Only a farm-serving lass only a peas
ant, I fear !
Well on that green-lidded box, her name
was painted in yellow ;
Dorothy Crump were the words. Crump ?
What a horrible name !
Yes, but they gave it to her, because (like
the box) 't was her mother's ;
Ready to hand though of course she
had no joy in the name :
She had no kin and indeed, she never
had needed a surname ;
Never had used one at all, never had
made one her own :
Dolly " she was to herself, and to every
one else she was " Dolly " ;
'Nothing but " Dolly " ; and so, that was
enough for a name,
ms then, her great, green box, her one
undoubted possession,
Stood where it was ; like her, " never
went nowhere " at all ;
r aited, perhaps, as of old, some beautiful
Florentine bride-chest,
Till, in the fulness of time, He, the Be
loved, appears.
fas there naught else in her room ? nothing
handy for washing or dressing ?
Yes ; on a plain deal stand, basin, and
ewer, and dish :
of them empty, unused ; for the sink
was the place of her toilet ;
Save on a Sunday and then, she too
could dress at her ease ;
i, by the little sidewall of the diamonded
dormer-window
She at a sixpenny glass brush' d out her
bonny bright hair,
what a poor little room ! Would you
like to sleep in it, ladies ?
Innocence sleeps there unharm'd ; Honor,
and Beauty, and Peace
Love, too, has corae ; and with these, even
dungeons were easily cheerful ;
But, for our Dorothy's room, it U no
dungeon at all.
No! through the latticed panes of the
diamonded dormer-window
Dorothy looks on a world free and fa
miliar and fair :
Looks on the fair farm-yard, where the
poultry and cattle she lives with
Bellow and cackle and low music de
lightful to her ;
Looks on the fragrant fields, with cloud-
shadows flying above them,
Singing of birds in the air, woodlands
and waters around.
She in those fragrant meads has wrought,
every year of her girlhood ;
Over those purple lands she, too, has
follow'd the plough ;
And, like a heifer afield, or a lamb that is
yean'd in the meadows,
She, to herself and to us, seems like a
part of it all.
BEAUTY AT THE PLOUGH
Thus then, one beautiful day, in the sweet,
cool air of October,
High up on Breakheart Field, under the
skirts of the wood,
Dolly was ploughing : she wore (why did
I not sooner descril>e it?)
Just such a dress as they all all the
farm-servants around ;
Only, it seem'd to be hers by a right divine
and a fitness
Color and pattern and shape suited so
aptly to her.
First, on her well-set head a lilac hood-
bonnet of cotton,
Framing her amberbright hair, shading
her neck from the sun ;
Then, on her shoulders a shawl ; a coarse
red kerchief of woolen,
Matching the glow of her cheeks, lighting
her berry-brown skin ;
Then came a blue cotton frock dark blue,
and spotted with yellow
Sleev'd to the elbows alone, leaving her
bonny arms bare ;
So that those ruddy brown arms, with the
dim, dull blue for a background
246
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Seein'd not so rough as they were
softer in color and grain.
All round her ample waist her frock was
gather'd and kilted,
Showing her kirtle, that hung down to
the calf of the leg :
Lancashire linsey it was, with bands of
various color
Striped on a blue-gray ground : sober,
and modest, and warm ;
Showing her stout firm legs, made stouter
by home-knitted stockings ;
Ending in strong laced boots, such as a
ploughman should wear :
Big solid ironshod boots, that added an
inch to her stature ;
Studded with nails underneath, shoed
like a horse, at the heels.
After a day at plough, all clotted with
earth from the furrows,
Oh, how unlike were her boots, Rosa
Matilda, to yours !
FLOS FLORUM
OXE only rose our village maiden wore ;
Upon her breast she wore it, in that part
Where many a throbbing pulse doth heave
and start
At the mere thought of Love and his sweet
lore.
No polish'd gems hath she, no moulded ore,
Nor any other masterpiece of art :
She hath but Nature's masterpiece, her
heart ;
And that show'd ruddy as the rose she bore
Because that he, who sought for steadfast
ness
Vainly in other maids, had found it bare
Under the eyelids of this maiden fair,
Under the folds of her most simple dress.
She let him find it ; for she lov'd him, too,
As he lov'd her : and all this tale is true.
SWEET NATURE'S VOICE
FROM "SUSAN: A POEM OF DEGREES"
HER Master gave the signal, with a look :
Then, timidly as if afraid, she took
In her rough hands the Laureate's dainty
book,
And straight began. But when she did
begin,
Her own mute sense of poesy within
Broke forth to hail the poet, and to greet
His graceful fancies and the accents sweet
In which they are express'd. Oh, lately
lost,
Long loved, long honor'd, and whose Cap
tain's post
No living bard is competent to fill
How strange, to the deep heart that now is
still,
And to the vanish'd hand, and to the ear
Whose soft melodious measures are so dear
To us who cannot rival them how strange,
If thou, the lord of such a various range,
Hadst heard this new voice telling Arden's
tale!
For this was no prim maiden, scant and
pale,
Full of weak sentiment, and thin delight
111 pretty rhymes, who mars the resonant
might
Of noble verse with arts rhetorical
And simulated frenzy : not at all !
This was a peasant woman ; large and
strong,
Redhanded, ignorant, unused to song
Accustom'd rather to the rudest prose.
And yet, there lived within her rustic clothes
A heart as true as Arden's ; and a brain,
Keener than his, that counts it false and vain
To seem aught else than simply what she is.
How singular, her faculty of bliss !
Bliss in her servile work ; bliss deep and
full
In things beyond the vision of the dull,
Whate'er their rank : things beautiful as
these
Sonorous lines and solemn harmonies
Suiting the tale they tell of ; bliss in love
Ah, chiefly that ! which lifts her soul above
Its common life, and gives to labors coarse
Such fervor of imaginative force
As makes a passion of her basest toil.
Surely this servant-dress was but a foil
To her more lofty being ! As she read,
Her accent was as pure, and all she said
As full of interest and of varied grace
As were the changeful moods, that o'er her
face
Pass'd, like swift clouds across a windy sky,
At each sad stage of Enoch's history.
Such ease, such pathos, such abandonment |
To what she utter'd, moulded as she went
Her soft sweet voice, and with such self-
control
Did she, interpreting the poet's soul,
MUNBY ISA CRAIG KNOX EDWIN ARNOLD
247
Bridle her own, that when the tale was done
I look'd at her, amaz'd : she seem'd like one
Who from some sphere of music had come
down,
And donn'd the white cap and the cotton
gown
As if to show how much of skill and art
May dwell uuthought of, in the humblest
heart.
Yet there was no great mystery to tell j
She felt it deeply, so she read it weli
Craig Jfnoj:
THE WOODRUFFE
THOU art the flower of grief to me,
'T is in thy flavor !
Thou keepest the scent of memory,
A sickly savor.
In the moonlight, under the orchard tree,
Thou wert pluck'd and given to me,
For a love favor.
In the moonlight, under the orchard tree,
Ah, cruel flower !
Thou wert pluck'd and given to me,
While a fruitless shower
Of blossoms rain'd on the ground where grew
The woodruffe bed all wet with dew,
In the witching hour.
Under the orchard tree that night
Thy scent was sweetness,
And thou, with thy small star clusters bright
Of pure completeness,
Shedding a pearly lustre bright,
Seem'd, as I gaz'd in the meek moonlight,
A gift of meetness.
" It keeps the scent for years," said be,
(And thou hast kept it) ;
" And when you scent it, think of me."
(He could not mean thus bitterly.)
Ah ! I had swept it
Into the dust where dead things rot,
Had I then believ'd his love was not
What I have wept it.
Between the leaves of this holy book,
flower undying !
A worthless and wither'd weed in look,
1 keep thee lying.
The bloom of my life with thee was pluck'd,
And a close-press'd grief its sap hath suck'd,
Its strength updrying.
Thy circles of leaves, like pointed spears,
My heart pierce often ;
They enter, it inly bleeds, no tears
The hid wounds soften ;
Yet one will I ask to bury thee
In the soft white folds of my shroud with
me,
Ere they close my coffin.
<ettoin SErnolfc
'ROM '< THE LIGHT OF ASIA"
NIRVANA
Books say well, my Brothers ! each
man's life
The outcome of his former living is ;
bygone wrongs bring forth sorrows and
woes,
The bygone right breeds bliss.
it which ye sow ye reap. See yonder
fields !
The sesamum was sesamum, the corn
Was com. The Silence and the Darkness
knew!
So is a man's fate born.
He cometh, reaper of the things he sow'd,
Sesamum, corn, so much cast in past
birth;
And so much weed and poison-stuff, which
mar
Him and the aching earth.
If he shall labor rightly, rooting these,
And iil.iii tin? wholesome seedlings w
And planting wholesome
they grew,
igs where
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Fruitful and fair and clean the ground
shall be,
And rich the harvest due.
If he who liveth, learning whence woe
springs,
Endureth patiently, striving to pay
His utmost debt for ancient evils done
In Love and Truth alway ;
If making none to lack, he thoroughly purge
The lie and lust of self forth from his
blood ;
Suffering all meekly, rendering for offence
Nothing but grace and good ;
If he shall day by day dwell merciful,
Holy and just and kind and true ; and
rend
Desire from where it clings with bleeding
roots,
Till love of life have end :
He dying leaveth as the sum of him
A life-count clos'd, whose ills are dead
and quit,
Whose good is quick and mighty, far and
near,
So that fruits follow it
No need hath such to live as ye name life ;
That which began in him when he began
Is finish'd : he hath wrought the purpose
through
Of what did make him Man.
Never shall yearnings torture him, nor sins
Stain him, nor ache of earthly joys and
woes
Invade his safe eternal peace ; nor deaths
And lives recur. He goes
Unto NiRvAxA. He is one with Life
Yet lives not. He is blest, ceasing to be.
OM, MANI FADME, OM ! the Dewdrop slips
Into the shining sea !
THE CALIPH'S DRAUGHT
UPON a day in Ramadan
When sunset brought an end of fast,
And in his station every man
Prepar'd to share the glad repast
Sate Mohtasim in royal state,
The pillaw smok'd upon the gold ;
The fairest slave of those that wait
Mohtasim's jewell'd cup did hold.
Of crystal carven was the cup,
With turquoise set along the brim,
A lid of amber clos'd it up ;
'T was a great king that gave it him.
The slave pour'd sherbet to the brink,
Stirr'd in wild honey and pomegranate,
With snow and rose-leaves cool'd the
drink,
And bore it where the Caliph sate.
The Caliph's mouth was dry as bone,
He swept his beard aside to quaff :
The news-reader beneath the throne
Went droning on with ghain and kaj.
The Caliph drew a mighty breath,
Just then the reader read a word
And Mohtasim, as grim as death,
Set dowa the cup and snatch'd his sword.
1 amratan shureefatee ! "
" Speak clear ! " cries angry Mohtasim ;
" Fe lasr ind' ilj min ulji,"
Trembling the newsman read to him
How in Ammoria, far from home,
An Arab girl of noble race
Was captive to a lord of Roum ;
And how he smote her on the face,
And how she cried, for life afraid,
" Ya, Mohtasim ! help, O my king ! "
And how the Kafir mock'd the maid,
And laugh'd, and spake a bitter thing,
" Call louder, fool ! Mohtasim's ears
Are long as Barak's if he heed
Your prophet's ass ; and when he hears,
He'll come upon a spotted steed ! "
The Caliph's face was stern and red,
He snapp'd the lid upon the cup ;
"Keep this same sherbet, slave," he said,
" Till such time as I drink it up.
Wallah ! the stream my drink shall be,
My hallow'd palm my only bowl,
Till I have set that lady free,
And seen that Roumi dog's head roll."
At dawn the drums of war were beat,
Proclaiming, " Thus saith Mohtasim,
' Let all my valiant horsemen meet,
And every soldier bring with him
A spotted steed.' " So rode they forth,
A sight of marvel and of fear ;
EDWIN ARNOLD
249
Pied horses prancing fiercely north,
Three lakhs the cup borne in the rear !
When to Ammoria he did win,
He smote and drove the dogs of Roum,
And rode his spotted stallion in,
Crying, " Labbayki ! I am come ! "
Then downward from her prison-place
Joyful the Arab lady crept ;
She held her hair before her face,
She kiss'd his feet, she laugh'd and wept.
She pointed where that lord was laid :
They drew him forth, he whin'd for grace :
Then with fierce eyes Mohtasim said
" She whom thou smotest on the face
Had scorn, because she call'd her king :
Lo ! he is come ! and dost thou think
To live, who didst this bitter thing
While Mohtasim at peace did drink ? "
Flash'd the fierce sword roll'd the lord's
head;
The wicked blood smok'd in the sand.
[ Now bring my cup ! " the Caliph said.
Lightly he took it in his hand,
8 down his throat the sweet drink ran
Mohtasim in his saddle laugh'd,
cried, " Taiba asshrab alan I
By God ! delicious is this draught ! "
AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA
[E who died at Azan senda
lis to comfort all his friends :
lithful friends ! It lies, I know,
and white and cold as snow ;
ye say, Abdallah 's dead ! "
Beeping at the feet and head,
can see your falling tears,
can hear your sighs and prayers ;
Tot I smile and whisper this,
1 / am not the thing you kiss ;
your tears, and let it lie ;
was mine, it is not I."
set friends ! What the women lave
Jor its last bed of the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which, at last,
Like a hawk my soul hath pass'd.
Love the inmate, not the room,
The wearer, not the garb, the plume
Of the falcon, not the bare
Which kept him from these splendid stars.
Loving friends ! Be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye,
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'T is an empty sea-shell, one
Out of which the pearl is gone ;
The shell is broken, it lies there ;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.
T is an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah seal'd, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that lov'd him ; let it lie I
Let the shard be earth's once more.
Since the gold shines in his store I
Allah glorious ! Allah good !
Now thy world is understood ;
Now the long, long wonder ends ;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you ; lost, 't is true,
By such light as shines for you ;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfill'd felicity,
In enlarging paradise,
Lives a life that never dies.
Farewell, friends ! Yet not farewell 5
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepp'd
Ye will wonder why ye wept ;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-
Sunshine still must follow rain ;
Only not at death, for death.
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.
Be ye certain all seems love,
View'd from Allah's throne above ;
Be ye stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home !
La Allah ilia Allah ! jre!
Thou love divine I Thou love alway !
He that died at Azan gave
This to those who made his grave*
25
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
RAGLAN
AH ! not because our Soldier died before
his field was won ;
Ah ! not because life would not last till
life's long task were done.
Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less
grief, of all our hosts that led
Not last in work and worth approv'd,
Lord Raglan lieth dead.
His nobleness he had of none, War's Master
taught him war,
And prouder praise that Master gave than
meaner lips can mar ;
Gone to his grave, his duty done ; if farther
any seek,
He left his life to answer them, a soldier's,
let it speak !
T was his to sway a blunted sword, to
fight a fated field,
While idle tongues talk'd victory, to strug
gle not to yield ;
Light task for placeman's ready pen to plan
a field for fight,
Hard work and hot with steel and shot to
win that field aright.
Tears have been shed for the brave dead ;
mourn him who mourn'd for all !
Praise hath been given for strife well striven ;
praise him who strove o'er all,
Nor count that conquest little, though no
banner flaunt it far,
That under him our English hearts beat
Pain and Plague and War.
And if he held those English hearts too
good to pave the path
To idle victories, shall we grudge what
noble palm he hath ?
Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and
mid his soldiers seen,
His work was aye as stern as theirs ; oh !
make his grave as green.
They know him well, the Dead who died
that Russian wrong should cease,
Where Fortune doth not measure men,
their souls and his have peace ;
Ay ! as well spent in sad sick tent as they
in bloody strife,
For English Homes our English Chief gave
what he had, his life.
FROM "WITH SA'DI IN THE
GARDEN "
MAHMUD AND AYAZ : A PARAPHRASE
ox SA'DI
THEY mock'd the Sovereign of Ghaznin;
one saith,
" Ayaz hath no great beauty, by my faith !
A Rose that 's neither rosy-red nor fra
The BulbuTs love for such astonisheth ! "
This went to Mahmud's ears ; ill-pleas'd he
sate,
Bow'd on himself, reflecting ; then to that
Replied : " My love is for his kindly
nature,
Not for his stature, nor his face, nor state I n
And I did hear how, in a rocky dell,
Bursting a chest of gems a camel fell ;
King Mahmud wav'd his sleeve, permit
ting plunder,
But spurr'd his own steed onward, as they
tell.
His horsemen parted from their Lord amain,
Eager for pearls, and corals, and such gain :
Of all those neck-exalting courtiers
None except Ayaz near him did remain.
The King look'd back " How many hast
thou won,
CurPd comfort of my heart?" He an-
swer'd " None !
I gallop'd up the pass in rear of thee ;
I quit thee for no pearls beneath the sun ! "
Oh, if to God thou hast propinquity,
For no wealth heedless of His service be !
If Lovers true of God shall ask from God
Aught except God, that 's infidelity.
If thine eyes fix on any gift of Friend,
Thy gain, not his, is thy desire's end :
If thy mouth gape in avarice, Heaven's
message
Unto Heart's ear by that road shall not wend.
SONG WITHOUT A SOUND
THE Bulbul wail'd, " Oh, Rose ! all night I
sing,
And Thou, Beloved ! utterest not one
thing."
EDWIN ARNOLD
Dear Bird !" she answer' d, "scent and
blossoming
Are music of my Song without a sound."
The Cypress to the Tulip spake : " What
bliss
Seest thou in sunshine, dancing still like
this?"
*My cup," the Tulip said, " the wind's lips
kiss ;
Dancing I hear the Song without a
souud."
The gray Owl hooted to the Dove at mom,
**Why art thou happy on thy jungle-
thorn?"
"Hearest thou not," she cooed, "o'er
Earth's face borne
This music of the Song without a sound ? "
** Ah, Darweesh ! " moan'd a King,
" Vainly I pray
For Allah's comfort, kneeling day by day."
** Sultan ! " quoth he, " be meek, and hear
I alway
The music of His Mercy without sound."
Poet ! " a Queen sigh'd, " why alone to
thee
visions of that world we cannot see
ot great nor rich?" "I borrow min
strelsy,"
Smiling he said, "from Songs without a
sound."
Shinn-i-man ! dear Lover ! true and sweet,
Ask no more if I love, nor kiss my feet ;
But hear, with cheek against my bosom's
beat,
The music of the Song without a sound !
THE MUSMEE
THE Mnsmee has brown velvet eyes
Curtain'd with satin, sleepily ;
You wonder if those lids would rise
The newest, strangest sight to see ;
But when she chatters, langhs, or plays
Koto, biwa, or samisen,
No jewel gleams with brighter rays
Than flash from those dark lashes
thru.
The Musmee has a small brown face,
" Musk-melon seed " its perfect shape :
Jetty arch'd eyebrows ; nose to grace
The rosy mouth beneath ; a nape,
And neck, and chin, and smooth, soft cheeks
Carv'd out of sun-burn'd ivory,
With teeth, which, when she smiles or
speaks,
Pearl merchants might come leagues to
see!
The Musmee's hair could teach the night
How to grow dark, the raven's wing
How to seem ebon ! Grand the sight
When, in rich masses, towering,
She builds each high black-marble coil,
And binds the gold and scarlet in ;
And thrusts, triumphant, through the toil
The Kanzashi, her jewell'd pin.
The Musmee has wee, faultless feet,
With snow-white tabi trimly deck'd,
Which patter down the city street
In short steps, slow and circumspect ;
A velvet string between her toes
Holds to its place th' unwilling shoe :
Pretty and pigeon-like she goes,
And on her head a hood of blue.
The Musmee wears a wondrous dress
Kimono, obi, imoji
A rose-bush in Spring loveliness
Is not more color-glad to see !
Her girdle holds her silver pipe,
And heavy swing her long silk sleeves
With cakes, love-letters, mikan ripe,
Small change, musk-bag, and writing*
leaves.
The Musmee's heart is slow to grief,
And quick to pleasure, dance, and song J
The Musmee's pocket-handkerchief
A square of paper ! All day long
Gentle, and sweet, and debonair
Is, rich or poor, this Asian lass :
Heaven have her in its tender care,
medctS gozarima* I l
Japanese for " May it be well with thee I
252
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
VERSAILLES
(1784)
IN Carnival we were, and supp'd that night
In a long room that overlooked the Square,
When that strange matter happ'd of which
you ask.
We rang all pleasure's carillon that week ;
Feasts and rich shows, and hunting in the
woods,
Light love that liv'd on change, deep drink
ing, mirth
As mad as Nero's on the Palatine ;
The women were as wild as we, and, like
The King's, our money flew about in
showers.
They said, " The people starv'd " ; it could
not be ;
We spent a million on the Carnival.
And now for fifty years gone by I have
heard
"The people starve" Why then do the
useless beasts
Gender so fast ? Less mouths, more bread !
For me,
I do not care whether they live or die,
Canaille the dunghill breeds, but Drurn-
mond car'd,
The young Scotch musketeer whose waking
dream
You wish to hear from me, who only live
Of all our joyous company. I am old,
My life burns like the thinnest flame, but
then
It was a glorious fire, and on that night
I led the feast, and roof and table rang
With revelry : till at the height of noise
A sudden silence fell, and while we smil'd,
Waiting for whom should break it, the
great clock
Struck three in the still air and a hush'd
sound
Like coming wind pass'd by, and in its
breath
I thought I heard, far off, a wail and roar
As if a city perish'd at one stroke ;
The rest heard not, but Drummond starting
up
And muttering " Death, Death and his
troops are nigh,"
Strode to the window. Half asleep he
seem'd,
Pale as that madman Damiens on the day
He met the torture and across the bar
He lean'd, and saw the white square in the
moon.
Men mock'd, and let him be they knew
his mood ;
One of his Highland trances, so they said ;
But I kept watch the grim gray North
in him,
Midst of our Gallic lightness, pleas'd me
well.
I watch'd and mark'd above his head the
moon,
That shone like pearl amid the western
heaven,
Suddenly swallow'd up by a vast cloud,
With edges like red lightning, but the rest
Of the sky and stars was clear, and the
rushing noise v
Now louder swell'd, like cataracts of rain.
And then I saw how Drummond toss'd his
arms
High o'er his head, and, crying "Horror,
horror,"
Fell like a stabb'd man prone upon the
floor.
We laid him on a couch and cried, " Speak
speak,
What is it, what have you seen ? "
" I have seen Death," he said,
" And Doom," and truly with his matted
hair,
And eyes which as he rose upon his hands
Seem'd 'neath their cavern'd arches coals of
fire,
He look'd like a gaunt, shaggy mountain
wolf
Caught in a pit, and mad with rage and
fear.
" You heard," he said, " that sighing rush
of wind
And then the awful cry, far off, as if
The world had groan'd and died I heard,
and trance
Fell on my brain, and in the trance I saw
The square below me in the moonlight fill
With nobles, dames, and maidens, pages, all
The mighty names of France, and midst
them walk'd
The King and Queen, not ours, but those
that come
Hereafter, and I heard soft speech of love
STOPFORD AUGUSTUS BROOKE
2 53
And laughter please the night when
momently
The moon went out, and from the darkness
stream'd
A hissing flood of rain that where it fell
Changed into blood, and 'twixt the court
yard stones
Blood well'd as water from a mountain
moss ;
And the gay crowd, unwitting, walk'd in
it:
Bubbling it rose past ankle, knee, and waist,
From waist to throat ; and still they walk'd
as if
They knew it not, until a fierce wind lash'd
The crimson sea, and beat it into waves,
And when its waves smote on their faces,
then
They knew and shriek'd, but all in vain ;
the blood,
Storming upon them, whelm'd and drown'd
them all ;
At which a blinding lightning like a knife
Gash'd the cloud's breast, and dooming
thunder peal'd.
fwoke, and crying 'Horror* knew no
more,
've seen the fates of France ; the day of
God
- wcind vengeance is at hand ; take heed
repent
Leave me to rest."
We laugh'd to hear him preach,
And left him on the couch, where like a
man
Drunken he slept, but when he rose, his
hue
Was changed, a cloud was on his eyes, his
mouth
Was stern. He sang, he ruffled, lov'd no
more,
Provok'd no man, and went about like one
Who can you think it ? thought there
was a God
Who, midst his court, car'd how his people
liv'd.
We all were doom'd, he said, and France
was doom'd,
He would not stay ! And so gave up his
sword,
ind went to Scotland, where in some grim
tower
[e lov'd and married fool ! a name
less girl,
made the peasants happy, I am told ;
But we liv'd out our life, and met no
doom ;
And now I am old, and Louis, my good
friend
The Well-belov'd, is dead long since, and
soon
My time will come I The people starve,
they say,
And curse. I know they curse and hate us t
Well,
We will ride down and slay the mutinous
dogs ;
Why, yesterday my horses in the crowd
Threw down a mother and a child, and
splash'd
A hideous dwarf, who shook his fist and
curs'd ;
I laugh'd, but as he curs'd with skill, I
ask'd
The ruffian's name " Marat," they said,
"a leech,
Who physics horses and the common herd,
Brute healing brute the people's friend,
and yet
He takes our wages writes us down, but
keeps
A place in d'Artois' stable I" These are
the scum
That Drummond fear'd Artois shall flog
the man.
THE JUNGFRAU'S CRY
I, VIRGIN of the Snows, have liv'd
Uncounted years apart ;
Mated with Sunlight, Stars and Heaven,
But I am cold at heart.
High mates I Ye teach me purity,
And lonely thought and tmth ;
But I have never liv'd, and yet
I have eternal youth.
Blow, tropic winds, and warm rains, fall,
And melt my snowy crest ;
Let soft woods clothe my shoulders
Deep grass lie on my breast.
And let me feed a thousand herds,
And hear the tinkling bells,
Till the brown chalets cluster close
In all my stream-fed dells.
So may I hear the sweep of scythes,
And beating of the flails,
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
My maidens singing as they spin,
And the voice of nightingales.
And little children in their joy,
And, where my violets hide,
Soft interchange of lovers' vows,
Sweet hymns at eventide.
Alas ! cold Sunlight, Stars and Heaven,
My high companions, call.
The ice-clad life is pure and stern :
I am weary of it all.
SONGS FROM "RIQUET OF THE
TUFT"
QUEEN'S SONG
YOUNG Sir Guy on proudly said,
" Love shall never be my fate."
" None can say so but the dead,"
Shriek'd the witch wife at his gate.
" Go and dare my shadow'd dell,
Love will quell your happy mood."
Guyon, laughing his farewell,
Rode into the faery wood.
There he met a maiden wild,
By a tree she stood alone ;
When she look'd at him and smil'd,
At a breath his heart was gone.
In her arms she twin'd him fast,
And, like wax within the flame,
Melted memory of the past,
Soul and body, name and fame.
Late at night the steed came back,
" Where 's our good knight ? " cried his
men ;
Far and near they sought his track,
But Guyon no one saw again.
PRINCE RIQUET'S SONG
O LONG ago, when Faery-land
Arose new born, King Oberon
Walk'd pensive on the yellow strand,
And wearied, for he liv'd alone.
" Why have I none, he said, to love ? "
When soft a wind began to fleet
Across the moonlit sea, and drove
A lonely shallop to his feet.
Of pearl, and rubies red, and gold,
That shell was made, and in it lay
Titania fast asleep, and roll'd
In roses, and in flowers of May.
He wak'd her with a loving kiss,
Her arms around him softly clung ;
And none can ever tell the bliss
These had when Faery-land was young.
MARE MEDITERRANEUM
A LINE of light ! it is the inland sea,
The least in compass and the first in
fame ;
The gleaming of its waves recalls to me
Full many an ancient name.
As through my dreamland float the days of
old,
The forms and features of their heroes
shine :
I see Phoanician sailors bearing gold
From the Tartessian mine.
Seeking new worlds, storm-toss'd Ulysses
ploughs
Remoter surges of the winding main j
And Grecian captains come to pay their
vows,
Or gather up the slain.
I see the temples of the Violet Crown
Burn upward in the hour of glorious
flight ;
And mariners of uneclips'd renown,
Who won the great sea fight.
I hear the dashing of a thousand oars,
The angry waters take a deeper dye ;
A thousand echoes vibrate from the shores
With Athens' battle-cry.
Again the Carthaginian rovers sweep,
With sword and commerce, on from shore
to shore ;
JOHN NICHOL
In visionary storms the breakers leap
Roimd Syrtes, as of yore.
Victory, sitting on the Seven Hills,
Had gaiu'd the world when she had inas-
ter'd thee ;
Thy bosom with the Roman war -note
thrills,
Wave of the inland sea.
Then, singing as they sail in shining ships,
I see the monarch minstrels of Romance,
And hear their praises murmur'd through
the lips
Of the fair dames of France.
Across the deep another music swells,
On Adrian bays a later splendor smiles ;
Power hails the marble city where she
dwells
Queen of a hundred isles.
Westward the galleys of the Crescent roam,
And meet the Pisan ; challenge on the
breeze,
Till the long Dorian palace lords the foam
With stalwart Genoese.
But the light fades ; the vision wears
away ;
I see the mist above the dreary wave.
Blow, winds of Freedom, give another day
Of glory to the brave !
H. W. L.
THE roar of Niagara dies away,
The fever heats of war and traffic fade,
While the soft twilight melts the glare of
day
In this new Helicon, the Muses' glade.
The roof that shelter'd Washington's
retreat,
Thy home of homes, America, I find
In this memorial mansion, where we greet
The full-ton'd lyrist, with the gentle
mind.
Here have thy chosen spirits met and
flower'd,
Season on season, 'neath magnetic spells
Of him who, in his refuge, rose-embower'd,
Remote from touch of envious passion
dwells.
Here Concord's sage and Harvard's wit
contend :
The wise, the true, the learned of the land.
Grave thoughts, gay fantasies together
blend
In subtle converse, 'neath his fostering
hand.
With other forms than those of mortal
guest
The house is haunted ; visions of the
morn,
Voices of night that soothe the soul to rest,
Attend the shapes, by aery wand reborn ;
Serene companions of a vanish'd age,
Noiseless they tread the once familiar
floors ;
Or, later offspring of the poet's page,
They throng the threshold, crowd the
corridors.
" Sweet Preciosa " beside the listening stair
Flutters expectant while Victorian sings ;
Evangeline, with cloistral eyes of prayer,
Folds her white hands, in shade of angels'
wings.
Conquistadors of Castile pace the hall ;
Or red-skinu'd warriors pass the challenge
round ;
Or Minuehaha's laughter, as the fall
Of woodland waters, makes a silver
sound.
Thor rolls the thunders of his fiery vaunt,
The answering battle burns in Olaf's
eyes ;
Or love-crown'd Elsie lures us with the
chaunt
That lull'd the waves, 'neath star-hung
Genoan skies.
Here grim-faced captains of colonial days
Salute the builders of old German rhyme ;
And choral troops of children hymn the
praise
Of their own master minstrel of all time.
Fair shrine of pure creations ! linger long
His bright example, may his fame
increase :
Discord nor distance ever dim his song,
Whose ways are pleasantness, whose
paths are peace.
256
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Nor Hawthorne's manse, with ancient moss
bespread,
Nor Irving's hollow, is with rest so rife
As this calm haven, where the leaves are
shed
Round Indian summers of a golden life.
frantig,
of
BEDTIME
TlS bedtime ; say your hymn, and bid
" Good-night ;
God bless Mamma, Papa, and dear ones
all."
Your half-shut eyes beneath your eyelids
fall,
Another minute, you will shut them quite.
Yes, I will carry you, put out the light,
And tuck you up, although you are so
tall!
What will you give me, sleepy one, and
call
My wages, if I settle you all right ?
I laid her golden curls upon my arm,
I drew her little feet within my hand,
Her rosy palms were joined in trustful bliss,
Her heart next mine beat gently, soft and
warm
She nestled to me, and, by Love's command,
Paid me my precious wages "Baby's
Kiss."
MEMORY
I STILL keep open Memory's chamber : still
Drink from the fount of Youth's perennial
stream.
It may be in old age an idle dream
Of those dear children ; but beyond my will
They come again, and dead affections thrill
My pulseless heart, for now once more they
seem
To be alive, and wayward fancies teem
In my fond brain, and all my senses fill.
Come, Alice, leave your books ; 'tis I who
call ;
Bind up your hair, and teasing did you
say
Kissing that kitten ? Evey, come with
me;
Mary, grave darling, take my hand : yes,
all !
I have three hands to-day ! A Holiday.
A Holiday, Papa ? Woe 's me ! 't is Mem
ory !
AT LAST
LET me at last be laid
On that hillside I know which scans the vale,
Beneath the thick yews' shade,
For shelter when the rains and winds pre
vail.
It cannot be the eye
Is blinded when we die,
So that we know no more at all
The dawns increase, the evenings fall ;
Shut up within a mouldering chest of wood
Asleep, and careless of our children's good.
Shall I not feel the spring,
The yearly resurrection of the earth,
Stir thro' each sleeping thing
With the fair throbbings and alarms of
birth,
Calling at its own hour
On folded leaf and flower,
Calling the lamb, the lark, the bee,
Calling the crocus and anemone,
Calling new lustre to the maiden's eye,
And to the youth love and ambition high ?
Shall I no more admire
The winding river kiss the daisied plain ?
Nor see the dawn's cold fire
Steal downward from the rosy hills again ?
Nor watch the frowning cloud,
Sublime with mutterings loud,
Burst on the vale, nor eves of gold,
Nor crescent moons, nor starlights cold,
Nor the red casements glimmer on the
hill
At Yule-tides, when the frozen leas are
still ?
LEWIS MORRIS
257
Or should my children's tread
Through Sabbath twilights, wheii the hymns
are done,
Come softly overhead,
Shall no sweet quickening through my
bosom run,
Till all my soul exale
Into the primrose pale,
And every flower which springs above
Bivathes a new perfume from my love ;
I And I shall throb, and stir, and thrill be
neath
With a pure passion stronger far than
death ?
Sweet thought ! fair, gracious dream,
Too fair and fleeting for our clearer view !
How should our reason deem
That those dear souls, who sleep beneath
the blue
In rayless caverns dim,
'Mid ocean monsters grim,
Or whitening on the trackless sand,
Or with strange corpses on each hand
In battle-trench or city graveyard lie,
Break not their prison-bonds till time shall
die?
Nay, 't is not so indeed :
With the last fluttering of the falling breath
The clay-cold form doth breed
A viewless essence, far too fine for death ;
And, ere one voice can mourn,
>n upward pinions borne,
By are hidden, they are hidden, in some
thin air,
Far from corruption, far from care,
Where through a veil they view their
former scene,
Only a little touch'd by what has been.
Touch'd but a little ; and yet,
Conscious of every change that doth befall,
By constant change beset,
The creatures of this tiny whirling ball,
Fill'd with a higher being,
Dower'd with a clearer seeing,
Risen to a vaster scheme of life,
To wider joys and nobler strife,
Viewing our little human hopes and fears
As we our children's fleeting smiles and
tears.
Then, whether with fire they burn
This dwelling-house of mine when I am fled,
And in a marble urn
My ashes rest by rav beloved dead,
Or in the sweet cold earth
I pass from death to birth,
And pay kind Nature's life-long debt
In heart's-ease and in violet
In charnel-yard or hidden ocean wave,
Where'er I lie, I shall not scorn my grave.
SONG
LOVE took my life and thrill'd it
Through all its strings,
Play'd round my mind and fill'd it
With sound of wings,
But to my heart he never came
To touch it with his golden flame.
Therefore it is that singing
I do rejoice,
Nor heed the slow years bringing
A harsher voice,
Because the songs which he has sung
Still leave the uutouch'd singer young.
But whom in fuller fashion
The Master sways,
For him, swift wiiig'd with passion,
fleet the brief days.
Betimes the enforced accents come,
And leave him ever after dumb.
ON A THRUSH SINGING IN
AUTUMN
SWEET singer of the Spring, when the new
world
Was fill'd with song and bloom, and the
fresh year
Tripp'd, like a lamb playful and void of
fear,
Through daisied grass and young leaves
scarce unfurl'd,
Where is thy liquid voice
That all day would rejoice ?
Where now thy sweet and homely call,
Which from gray dawn to evening's chill
ing fall
Would echo from thin copse and tassell d
brake,
For homely duty tun'd and love's sweet
sake?
258
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
The spring-tide pass'd, high summer soon
should come.
The woods grew thick, the meads a deeper
hue ;
The pipy summer growths swell'd, lush and
tall;
The sharp scythes swept at daybreak
through the dew.
Thou didst not heed at all,
Thy prodigal voice grew dumb ;
No more with song mightst thou beguile,
She sitting on her speckled eggs the while,
Thy mate's long vigil as the slow days went,
Solacing her with lays of measureless con
tent.
Nay, nay, thy voice was Duty's, nor would
dare
Sing were Love fled, though still the world
were fair ;
The summer wax'd and wan'd, the nights
grew cold,
The sheep were thick within the wattled fold,
The woods began to moan,
Dumb wert thou and alone ;
Yet now, when leaves are sere, thy ancient
note
Comes low and halting from thy doubtful
throat.
Oh, lonely loveless voice, what dost thou
here
In the deep silence of the fading year ?
Thus do I read answer of thy song :
" I sang when winds blew chilly all day
long ;
I sang because hope came and joy was near p
I sang a little while, I made good cheer ;
In summer's cloudless day
My music died away ;
But now the hope and glory of the year
Are dead and gone, a little while I sing
Songs of regret for days no longer here,
And touch'd with presage of the far-off
Spring."
Is this the meaning of thy note, fair bird ?
Or do we read into thy simple brain
Echoes of thoughts which human hearts
have stirr'd,
High-soaring joy and melancholy pain ?
Nay, nay, that lingering note
Belated from thy throat
" Regret," is what it sings, " regret, regret !
The dear days pass, but are not wholly
gone.
In praise of those I let my song go on ;
'T is sweeter to remember than forget."
i <*BiI6ert
THE SANYASSI
I HAVE subdued at last the will to live,
Expelling nature from my weary heart ;
And now my life, so calm, contemplative,
No longer selfish, freely may depart.
The vital flame is burning less and less ;
And memory fuses to forgetfulness.
M Sometimes I gaze on vacancy so long
That all my brain grows vacant, and I
feel
That wondrous influence which doth make
-me strong
In resolution and unworldly zeal,
Until, abstracted from all time and sense,
I sink into eternal indolence.
" And now I feel my inward life grow still,
A being by itself, which fondly clings
To consciousness which I can never kill,
Yet is abstracted from all outwaii
things,
And slumbers often, and is overgrown ;
The sense of self increases when alone.
"I have subdued the will, but gain'd the
power
To dwell among the denizens of earth ;
I spread my spirit over tree and flower,
And human hearts, and things of meaner
birth ;
And thinking thus to give my soul away,
I found it grew more conscious every day.
" The simple crowds who hourly pass me by,
I think have lately grown afraid of me ;
There is some virtue in this sunken eye,
For sometimes in my dreams I faintly
see
The workings of the spirit in the brain,
And living floods that gush in every vein.
HAMERTON NOEL
* Now, as I am weary of this vain endeavor
To lift my spirit to eternal sleep ;
I seek the marble stairs, the sacred river,
The liquid graves below, where, calm and
deep,
Beneath where that bright, silent water
flows,
Stretch wide the regions of divine repose."
With thoughts like these the Indian suicide
Dragg'd forth his stiff en'd limbs from
his old lair ;
He had no garment on his shrivelFd hide,
He shunn'd the grove, and sought the
solar glare,
He never look'd aside, and his dead march
Had for its goal a gate of one proud arch.
It rose in sculptur'd splendor on the view
From the surrounding foliage of dark
green,
Whose masses of broad shadow did subdue
Its prominent light. The blue sky shone
between.
A crowd was on the river's sacred marge,
And on the Ganges many a gaudy barge.
Down to that river he descended now ;
And as he press'd the last steps of the stair,
A glance of pleasure from beneath his brow
Fell on two jars of porous earthenware.
He seiz'd them with his feeble hands, and
tied
One of them to his girdle on each side,
And floated slowly from the crowded Ghaut ;
And since no friendly hand was stretch'd
to save,
Found in those quiet waters what he
sought
A long rest and an honorable grave.
THE SECRET OF THE NIGHT
INGALE
THE ground I walk'd on felt like air,
Air buoyant with the year's young mirth ;
Far, filmy, undulating fair,
The down lay, a long wave of earth ;
And a still green foam of woods rose high
Over the hill-line into the sky.
His faith was righteous, and his ending
blest ;
And now his soul enjoys eternal rest
THE WILD HUNTSMEN
" WILD huntsmen ? " * T was a flight of
swans,
But so invisibly they flew,
That in his mind the pallid hind
Could hear a bugle horn.
Faintly sounds the airy note,
And the deepest bay from the staghound's
throat
Like the yelp of a cur on the air doth float ;
And hardly heard is the wild halloo
On the straggling night-breeze borne !
They fly on the blast of the forest
That whistles round the withered tree,
But where they go we may not know,
Nor see them as they fly.
With hound and horn they ride away
In the dreary twilight cold and gray,
That hovers near the dying day;
And the peasant hears but cannot see
Those huntsmen pass him by.
Hark ! 't is the goblin of the wood,
Rushing down the dark hill-side ;
With steeds that neigh and hounds that
bay,
All viewless sweeps the throng.
And heavily where the fallow-deer feeds
Clatter the hoofs of their hunting steeds,
Like the mountain gale on the valley's
meads ;
Till far away the spectres ride,
In distant lands along.
$orf
In meadowy pasture browse the kine,
Thin wheat-blades color a brown plough-
line ;
Fresh rapture of the year's young joy
Was in the unfolded luminous leaf,
And birds that shower as they toy
Melodious rain that knows not grief,
A song-maze where my heart in
Lay folded, like a chrysalis.
26<
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
They allured my feet far into the wood,
Down a winding 1 glade with leaflets wali'd,
With an odorous dewy dark imbued ;
Rose, and maple, and hazel call'd
Me into the shadowy solitude ;
Wild blue germander eyes enthralFd
Made ine free of the balmy bowers,
Where a wonderful garden-party of flow
ers,
Laughing sisterhood under the trees,
Dancing merrily, play'd with the bees ;
Anemone, starwort, bands in white,
Like girls for a first communion dight,
And pale yellow primrose ere her flight,
Usher'd me onward wondering
To a scene more fair than the court of a
king.
Ah ! they were very fair themselves,
Sweet maids of honor, woodland elves !
Frail flowers that arrive with the cuckoo,
Pale lilac, hyacinth purple of hue,
And the little pink geranium,
All smil'd and nodded to see me come ;
All gave me welcome ; " No noise," they
said,
"For we will show you the bridal bed,
Where Philomel, our queen, was wed ;
Hush ! move with a tender, reverent foot,
Like a shy light over bole and root ; "
And they blew in the delicate air for flute.
Into the heart of the verdure stole
My feet, and a music en wound my soul ;
Zephyr flew over a cool bare brow
I am near, very near to the secret now !
For the rose-covers, all alive with song,
Flash with it, plain now low and long ;
Sprinkle a holy water of notes ;
On clear air melody leans and floats ;
The blithe-wing'd minstrel merrily moves,
Dim bushes burn with mystical loves !
Lo ! I arrive ! immers'd in green,
Where the wood divides, though barely
seen,
A nest in one of the blue leaf-rifts !
There over the border a bird uplifts
Her downy head, bill'd, luminous-ey'd ;
Behold the chosen one, the bride !
And the singer, he singeth by her side.
Leap, heart ! be aflame with them ! loud,
not dumb,
Give a voice to their epithalamium !
Whose raptures wax not pale nor dim
Beside the fires of seraphim.
These are glorious, glowing stairs,
In gradual ascent to theirs ;
With human loves acclaim and hail
The holy lore of the nightingale !
SEA SLUMBER-SONG
SEA-BIRDS are asleep,
The world forgets to weep,
Sea murmurs her soft slumber-song
On the shadowy sand
Of this elfin land ;
" I, the Mother mild,
Hush thee, O my child,
Forget the voices wild !
Isles in elfin light
Dream, the rocks and caves,
Lull'd by whispering waves,
Veil their marbles bright,
Foam glimmers faintly white
Upon the shelly sand
Of this elfin land ;
Sea-sound, like violins,
To slumber woos and wins,
I murmur my soft slumber-song,
Leave woes, and wails, and sins,
Ocean's shadowy might
Breathes good-night,
Good-night ! "
DYING
THEY are waiting on the shore
For the bark to take them home ;
They will toil and grieve no more 5
The hour for release hath come.
All their long life lies behind,
Like a dimly blending dream ;
There is nothing left to bind
To the realms that only seem.
They are waiting for the boat,
There is nothing left to do ;
What was near them grows remote^
Happy silence falls like dew ;
Now the shadowy bark is come,
And the weary may go home.
By still water they would rest,
In the shadow of the tree ;
After battle sleep is best,
After noise tranquillity.
RODEN NOEL
261
THE MERRY-GO-ROUND
THE merry-go-round, the merry-go-round,
the merry-go-round at Fowey !
They whirl around, they gallop around, man,
woman, and girl, and Doy ;
They circle on wooden horses, white, black,
brown, and bay,
To a loud monotonous tune that hath a
trumpet bray.
All is dark where the circus stands on the
narrow quay,
Save for its own yellow lamps, that illumine
it brilliantly :
Fainted purple and red, it pours a broad
strong glow
Over an old-world house, with a pillar'd
place below ;
For the floor of the building rests on bandy
columns small,
And the bulging pile may, tottering, sud
denly bury all.
But there upon wooden benches, hunch'd
in the summer night,
Sit wrinkled sires of the village arow, whose
hair is white ;
They sit like the mummies of men, with a
glare upon them cast
From a rushing flame of the living, like
their own mad past ;
They are watching the merry-make, and
their face is very grave ;
Over all are the silent stars ! beyond, the
cold gray wave.
And while I gaze on the galloping horses
circling round,
The men caracoling up and down to a weird,
monotonous sound,
I pass into a bewilderment, and marvel why
they go ;
It seems the earth revolving, with our vain
to and fro !
For the young may be glad and eager, but
some ride listlessly,
And the old look on with a weary, dull,
and lifeless eye ;
I know that in an hour the fair will all be
. gone,
Stars shining over a dreary void, the Deep
have sound alone.
I gaze with orb sufl'us'd at human things
that fly,
And I am lost in the wonder of our dim
destiny. . . .
The merry-go-round, the merry-go-round,
the merry-go-ronwl nt Kowey !
They whirl around, they gallop around,
woman, and girl, and boy.
LAMENT
I AM lying in the tomb, love,
Lying in the tomb,
Tho' I move within the gloom, lovcu
Breathe within the gloom !
Men deem life not fled, dear,
Deem my life not fled,
Tho' I with thee am dead, dear,
I with thee am dead,
O my little child !
What is the gray world, darling,
What is the gray world,
Where the worm lies curPd, darling,
The deathworm lies curPd ?
They tell me of the spring, dear !
Do I want the spring ?
Will she waft upon her wing, dear,
The joy-pulse of her wing,
Thy songs, thy blossoming,
my little child !
For the hallowing of thy smile, love,
The rainbow of thy smile,
Gleaming for a while, love,
Gleaming to beguile,
Replunged me in the cold, dear,
Leaves me in the cold.
And I feel so very old, dear,
Very, very old !
Would they put me out of pain, dear,
Out of all my pain,
Since I may not live again, dear,
Never live again !
1 am lying in the grave, love,
In thy little grave,
Yet I hear the wind rave, love,
And the wild wave !
I would lie asleep, darling,
With thee lie asleep,
Unhearing the world weep, darling,
Little children weep I
O my little child I
262
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
THE TOY CROSS
MY little boy at Christmas-tide
Made me a toy cross ;
Two sticks he did, in boyish pride,
With brazen nail emboss.
Ah me ! how soon, on either side
His dying bed's true cross,
She and I were crucified,
Bemoaning our life-loss !
But He, whose arms in death spread wide
Upon the holy tree,
Were clasp'd about him when he died
Clasp'd for eternity !
"THAT THEY ALL MAY BE
ONE"
WHENE'ER there comes a little child,
My darling comes with him ;
Whene'er I hear a birdie wild
Who sings his merry whim,
Mine sings with him :
If a low strain of music sails
Among melodious hills and dales,
When a white lamb or kitten leaps,
Or star, or vernal flower peeps,
When rainbow dews are pulsing joy,
Or sunny waves, or leaflets toy,
Then he who sleeps
Softly wakes within my heart ;
With a kiss from him I start ;
He lays his head upon my breast,
Tho' I may not see my guest,
Dear bosom-guest !
In all that 's pure and fair and good,
I feel the spring-time of thy blood,
Hear thy whisper'd accents flow
To lighten woe,
Feel them blend,
Although I fail to comprehend.
And if one woundeth with harsh word,
Or deed, a child, or beast, or bird,
It seems to strike weak Innocence
Through him, who hath for his defence
Thunder of the All-loving Sire,
And mine, to whom He gave the fire.
it SUIfreti
MEDITATIONS OF A HINDU
PRINCE
ALL the world over, I wonder, in lands
that I never have trod,
Are the people eternally seeking for the
signs and steps of a God ?
Westward across the ocean, and North
ward across the snow,
Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what
do the wisest know ?
Here, in this mystical India, the deities
hover and swarm
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops,
or the gusts of a gathering storm ;
In the air men hear their voices, their feet
on the rocks are seen,
Yet we all say, " Whence is the message,
and what may the wonders mean ? "
A million shrines stand open, and ever the
censer swings,
As they bow to a mystic symbol, OP the
figures of ancient kings ;
And the incense rises ever, and rises the
endless cry
Of those who are heavy laden, and of cow
ards loth to die.
For the Destiny drives us together, like
deer in a pass of the hills ;
Above is the sky, and around us the sound
of the shot that kills ;
Push'd by a power we see not, and struck
by a hand unknown,
We pray to the trees for shelter, and press
our lips to a stone.
The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the
rock frowns hollow and grirn,
And the form and the nod of the demon
are caught in the twilight dim ;
And we look to the sunlight falling afar on
the mountain crest,
Is there never a path runs upward to a
refuge there and a rest ?
LYALL AUSTIX
263
The path, ah ! who has shown it, and which
is the faithful guide ?
The haven, ah ! who has known it ? for
steep is the mountain side,
Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever
the wasted breath
Of the praying multitude rises, whose an
swer is only death.
Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the
fruit of an ancient name,
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and
women who died in flame ;
They are gods, these kings of the foretime,
they are spirits who guard our race :
Ever I watch and worship ; they sit with a
marble face.
And the myriad idols around me, and the
legion of muttering priests,
The revels and rites unholy, the dark un
speakable feasts !
What have they wrung from the Silence ?
Hath even a whisper come
Of the secret, Whence and Whither?
Alas ! for the gods are dumb.
Shall I list to the word of the English, who
come from the uttermost sea ?
"The Secret, hath it been told you, and
what is your message to me ? "
AT HIS GRAVE
HUGHENDEN, MAY, 1 88 1
LEAVE me a little while alone,
Here at his grave that still is strown
With crumbling flower and wreath ;
The laughing rivulet leaps and falls,
The thrush exults, the cuckoo calls,
And he lies hush'd beneath.
With myrtle cross and crown of rose,
And every lowlier flower that blows,
His new-made couch is dress'd ;
Primrose and cowslip, hyacinth wild,
Gather'd by monarch, peasant, child,
A nation's grief attest.
I stood not with the mournful crowd
That hither came when round his shroud
Pious farewells were said.
It is nought but the wide-world story how
the earth and the heavens began,
How the gods are glad and angry, and a
Deity once was man.
I had thought, " Perchance in the cities
where the rulers of India dwell,
Whose orders Hash from the far land, who
girdle the earth with a spell,
They have fathom'd the depths we float on,
or measured the unknown main
Sadly they turn from the venture, and say
that the quest is vain.
Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and
where shall the dreamer awake ?
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and
what if the mirror break ?
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a
tent that is gathered and gone
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve,
and at morning are level and lone ?
Is there nought in the heaven above, whence
the hail and the levin are hurl'd,
But the wind that is swept around us by the
rush of the rolling world ?
The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and
bear me to silence and sleep
With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting,
and voices of women who weep.
In the fam'd city that he sav'd,
By minaret crown'd, by billow lav'd,
I heard that he was dead.
Now o'er his tomb at last I bend,
No greeting get, no greeting tend,
Who never came before
Unto his presence, but I took,
From word or gesture, tone or look,
Some wisdom from his door.
And must I now unanswered wait,
And, though a suppliant at the gate,
No sound my ears rejoice ?
Listen I Yes, even as I stand,
I feel the pressure of bis hand,
The comfort of his voice.
264
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
How poor were Fame, did grief confess
That death can make a great life less,
Or end the help it gave !
Our wreaths may fade, our flowers may
wane,
But his well-ripen 'd deeds remain,
Untouch'd, above his grave.
Let this, too, soothe our widow'd minds ;
Silenced are the opprobrious winds
Whene'er the sun goes down ;
And free henceforth from noonday noise,
He at a tranquil height enjoys
The starlight of renown.
Thus hence we something more may take
Than sterile grief, than formless ache,
Or vainly utter'd vow ;
Death hath bestow'd what life withheld
And he round whom detraction swell'd ,
Hath peace with honor now.
The open jeer, the covert taunt,
The falsehood coin'd in factious haunt,
These loving gifts reprove.
They never were but thwarted sound
Of ebbing waves that bluster round
A rock that will not move.
And now the idle roar rolls off,
Hush'd is the gibe and sham'd the scoff,
Repress'd the envious gird ;
Since death, the looking-glass of life,
Clear'd of the misty breath of strife,
Reflects his face unblurr'd.
From callow youth to mellow age,
Men turn the leaf and scan the page,
And note, with smart of loss,
How wit to wisdom did mature,
How duty burn'd ambition pure,
And purged away the dross.
Youth is self-love ; our manhood lends
Its heart to pleasure, mistress, friends,
So that when age steals nigh,
How few find any worthier aim
Than to protract a flickering flame,
Whose oil hath long run dry !
But he, unwitting youth once flown,
With England's greatness link'd his own,
And, steadfast to that part,
Held praise and blame but fitful sound,
And in the love of country found
Full solace for his heart.
Now in an English grave he lies :
With flowers that tell of English skies
And mind of English air,
A grateful sovereign decks his bed,
And hither long with pilgrim tread
Will English feet repair.
Yet not beside his grave alone
We seek the glance, the touch, the tone;
His home is nigh, but there,
See from the hearth his figure fled,
The pen unrais'd, the page unread,
Untenanted the chair !
Vainly the beechen boughs have made
A fresh green Canopy of shade,
Vainly the peacocks stray ;
While Carlo, with despondent gait,
Wonders how long aifairs of State
Will keep his lord away.
Here most we miss the guide, the friend ;
Back to the churchyard let me wend,
And, by the posied mound,
Lingering where late stood worthier feet,
Wish that some voice, more strong, more
sweet,
A loftier dirge would sound.
At least I bring not tardy flowers :
Votive to him life's budding powers,
Such as they were, I gave
He not rejecting, so I may
Perhaps these poor faint spices lay,
Unchidden, on his grave !
SONGS FROM "PRINCE LU
CIFER"
GRAVE-DIGGER'S SONG
THE crab, the bullace, and the sloe,
They burgeon in the Spring ;
And, when the west wind melts the snow,
The redstarts build and sing.
But Death's at work in rind and root,
And loves the green buds best ;
And when the pairing music 's mute,
He spares the empty nest,
Death ! Death !
Death is master of lord and clown.
Close the coffin, and hammer it down
When nuts are brown and sere without,
And white and plump within,
And juicy gourds are pass'd about,
And trickle down the chin ;
ALFRED AUSTIN
When comes the reaper with his scythe,
And reaps and nothing leaves,
Oh, then it is that Death is blithe,
And sups among the sheaves.
Death ! Death !
Lower the coffin and slip the cord :
Death is master of clown and lord.
When logs about the house are stack'd,
And next year's hose is knit,
And tales are told and jokes are crack'd,
And faggots blaze and spit ;
Death sits down in the ingle-nook,
Sits down and doth not speak :
But he puts his arm round the maid that 's
warm,
And she tingles in the cheek.
Death ! Death !
Death is master of lord and clown ;
Shovel the clay in, tread it down.
MOTHER-SONG
WHITE little hands !
Pink little feet !
Dimpled all over,
Sweet, sweet, sweet I
What dost thou wail for ?
The unknown ? the unseen ?
The ills that are coming,
The joys that have been ?
Cling to me closer,
Closer and closer,
Till the pain that is purer
Hath banish'd the grosser.
Drain, drain at the stream, love,
Thy hunger is freeing,
That was born in a dream, love,
Along with thy being !
Little fingers that feel
For their home on my breast,
Little lips that appeal
For their nurture, their rest f
Why, why dost thou weep, dear ?
Nay, stifle thy cries,
Till the dew of thy sleep, dear,
Lies soft on thine eyes.
AGATHA
SHE wanders in the April woods,
That glisten with the fallen shower ;
She leans her face against the buds,
She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.
She feels the ferment of the hour :
She broodeth when the ringdove broods ;
The sun and flying clouds have power
Upon her cheek and changing moods.
She cannot think she is alone,
As o'er her senses warmly steal
Floods of unrest she fears to own,
And almost dreads to feel.
Among the summer woodlands wide
Anew she roams, no more alone ;
The joy she fear'd is at her side,
Spring's blushing secret now is known.
The primrose and its mates have flown,
The thrush's ringing note hath died ;
But glancing eye and glowing tone
Fall on her from her god, her guide.
She knows not, asks not, what the goal,
She only feels she moves towards
bliss,
And yields her pure unquestioning soul
To touch and fondling kiss.
And still she haunts those woodland ways,
Though all fond fancy finds there now
To mind of spring or summer days,
Are sodden trunk and songless bough.
The past sits widow'd on her brow,
Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,
To walls that house a hollow vow,
To hearth where love hath ceas'd to blaze i
Watches the clammy twilight wane,
With grief too fiVd for woe or tear ;
And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane,
Envies the dying year.
THE HAYMAKERS' SONG
HERE 's to him that grows it,
Drink, lads, drink I
That lays it in and mows it,
Clink, jugs, clink !
To him that mows and makes it,
That scatters it and shakes it,
That turns, and teds, and rakes it,
Clink, jugs, clink !
Now here 's to him that stacks it,
Drink, lads, drink !
That thrashes and that tacks it,
Clink, jugs, clink !
That cuts it out for eating,
When March-dropp'd lambs are bleatmft
And the slate-blue clouds are sleeting,
Drink, lads, drink !
266
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
And here 's to thane and yeoman,
Drink, lads, drink !
To horseman and to bowman,
Clink, jugs, clink !
To lofty and to low man,
Who bears a grudge to no man,
But flinches from no foeman,
Drink, lads, drink J
MARIAN
PASSING feet pause, as they pass,
By this little slab of slate.
People, if they go this way,
By the linchen'd wicket gate,
At each other look and say,
" Pity, pity ! sad it was ! "
Here have fallen as many tears
As the months in her short years.
Seven and ten brief sunny springs ;
Scarce so many winter snows :
Here the little speedwell keeps
Watch beside the pale dog-rose ;
On this hillock, while she sleeps
Underneath, the red-breast sings.
Wedded on an April day !
In the Autumn laid away !
PHANTOMS
MY days are full of pleasant memories
Of all those women sweet,
Whom I have known ! How tenderly their
Flash thro' the days too fleet !
Which long ago went by with sun and rain,
Flowers, or the winter snow ;
And still thro' memory's palace-halls are
fain
In rustling robes to go !
Or wed, or widow'd,or with milkless breasts,
Around those women stand,
Like mists that linger on the mountain
crests
Rear'd in a phantom land ;
And love is in their mien and in their look,
And from their lips a stream
Of tender words flows, smooth as any brook,
And softer than a dream :
And, one by one, holding my hands, they say
Things of the years agone ;
And each head will a little turn away,
And each one still sigh on ;
Because they think such meagre joy we
had ;
For love was little bold,
And youth had store, and chances to be
glad,
And squander'd so his gold.
Blue eyes, and gray, and blacker than the
sloe,
And dusk and golden hair,
And lips that broke in kisses long ago,
Like suu-kiss'd flowers, are there ;
And warm fire-side, and sunny orchard wall,
And river-brink and bower,
And wood and hill, and morning and day-
fall, ,
And every place and hour !
And each on each a white unclouded brow
Still as a sister bends,
As they would say, " love makes us kindred
now,
Who sometime were his friends."
BY THE SALPTRIRE
I SAW a poor old woman on the bench
That you may find by the Salpe'triere.
The yellow leaves were falling, and the
wind
Gave hint of bitter days to come ere long.
And yet the sun was bright : and as I knew
A little sun, with the Parisiennes,
Means light of heart, I could not but de
mand
" Why, now, so near to weeping, citizen ? "
She look'd up at me with vague surprise,
And said, " You see I 'in old ; I 'in very
old:
I 'm eighty years and nine ; and people say
This winter will be hard. And we have
here,
We poor old women in this hospital,
A mortal dread of one strange bitter thing.
We would be buried in a coffin, we ;
For each her own. It is not much you
crave,
ASHE WATTS
267
Who 've striven ninety years, and come to
this,
And we would have the priest to say a prayer
To the good God for ns, within the church,
Before we go the way that go we must.
And sou by sou we save : a coffin costs,
You hear, Sir ? sixteen francs ; and if
we go
To church en route, 't is six francs for the
priest.
There 's some of us have sav'd it all, and
smile,
With the receipt sew'd up, lest they should
lose
This passport to the grave of honest folk.
But one may die before ; and then there is
One coffin for us all, and we are borne
To our last place, and slipp'd within the
grave,
And back they take the coffin for the next.
And if you 've sixteen francs, and not the six,
No church, but just a sprinkle with the brush,
And half a prayer, and you must take your
chance.
Good God ! and I shall die : I know I shall :
I feel it here ! and I have ten francs just :
No more ! " My tears fell like a shower of
rain.
I said, ' Old woman, here 's the other
twelve ; "
fled, with great strides, like a man
A VISION OF CHILDREN
I DREAM'D I saw a little brook
Run rippling down the Strand ;
With cherry-trees and apple-trees
Abloom on either hand :
The sparrows gather'd from the Squares,
Upon the branches green ;
The pigeons flock'd from Palace-Yard,
A fresh their wings to preen ;
And children down St. Martin's Lane,
And out of Westminster,
Came trooping, many a thousand strong.
With a bewilder'd air.
They hugg'd each other round the neck
And titter'd for delight,
To see the yellow daffodils,
And see the daisies white ;
They roll'd upon the grassy slopes,
And drank the water clear,
While 'busses the Embankment took,
A sham 'd to pass anear ;
And sandwich-men stood still aghast,
And costermongers smil'd ;
And the policeman on his beat
Fass'd, weeping like a child.
POETA NASCITUR
THE flame-wing'd seraph spake a word
To one of Galilee :
" Be not afraid : know, of the Lord
Is that is born of thee."
And by the poet's bliss and woe
Learn we tho will of Heaven :
He is God's instrument ; and so
Swords in his heart are seven.
He is God's oracle and slave,
As once the priestesses ;
His griefs in keeping we should hare,
To heal, or make them less.
ODE TO MOTHER CAREY'S
CHICKEN
)N SEEING A STORM-PETREL IN A CAGB ON A
COTTAGE WALL AND RELEASING IT)
rAZE not at me, my poor unhappy bird ;
That sorrow is more than human in thine
6V6 *
Too deep already is my spirit stirr'd
To see thee here, child of the sea and sky,
Coop'd in a cage with food thon canst not eat,
Thy "snow-flake" soU'd, and soil'd those
conquering feet
That walked the billows, while thy "***
sweet-siceet "
Proclaim'd the tempest nigh.
Bird whom I welcom'd while the sallow
curs'd,
Friend whom I bless'd whererer keels
may roam,
268
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Prince of my childish dreams, whom mer
maids nurs'd
In purple of billows silver of ocean-
foam,
Abash'd I stand before the mighty grief
That quells all other : Sorrow's king and
chief :
To ride the wind and hold the sea in fief,
Then find a cage for home !
From out thy jail thou seest yon heath and
woods,
But canst thou hear the birds or smell
the flowers ?
Ah, no ! those rain-drops twinkling on the
buds
Bring only visions of the salt sea-showers.
" The sea ! " the linnets pipe from hedge
and heath ;
" The sea ! " the honeysuckles whisper and
breathe ;
And tumbling waves, where those wild-roses
wreathe,
Murmur from inland bowers.
These winds so soft to others, how they
burn !
The mavis sings with gurgle and ripple
and plash,
To thee yon swallow seems a wheeling tern.
And when the rain recalls the briny lash
Old Ocean's kiss thou lovest, when thy
sight
Is mock'd with Ocean's horses manes of
white,
The long and shadowy flanks, the shoulders
bright
Bright as the lightning's flash,
When all these scents of heather and brier
and whin,
All kindly breaths of land-shrub, flower,
and vine,
Kecall the sea-scents, till thy feather'd skin
Tingles in answer to a dream of brine,
When thou, remembering there thy royal
birth,
Dost see between the bars a world of dearth,
Is there a grief a grief on all the earth
So heavy and dark as thine ?
But I can buy thy freedom I Cthank
God!),
Who lov'd thee more than albatross or
gull,
Lov'd thee when on the waves thy footsteps
trod,
Dream'd of thee when, becalm'd, we lav
a-hull
'T is I thy friend who once, a child of six,
To find where Mother Carey fed her chicks,
Climb'd up the stranded punt, and with
two sticks
Tried all in vain to scull>
Thy friend who ow'd a Paradise of Storm,
The little dreamer of the cliffs and coves,
Who knew thy mother, saw her shadowy
form
Behind the cloudy bastions where she
moves,
And heard her call : " Come ! for the wel
kin thickens,
And tempests mutter and the lightning
quickens ! "
Then, starting from his dream, would find
the chickens
Were only blue rock-doves,
Thy friend who ow'd another Paradise
Of calmer air, a floating isle of fruit,
Where sang the Nereids on a breeze of spice
While Triton, from afar, would sound
salute :
There wast thou winging, though the skies
were calm,
For marvellous strains, as of the morning's
shalm,
Were struck by ripples round that isle of
palm
Whose shores were " Carey's lute."
And now to see thee here, my king, my king,
Far-glittering memories mirror'd in those
eyes,
As if there shone within each iris-ring
An orbed world ocean and hills and
skies !
Those black wings ruffled whose triumphant
sweep
Conquer 'd in sport ! yea, up the glimmer
ing steep
Of highest billow, down the deepest deep,
Sported with victories !
To see thee here ! a coil of wilted weeds
Beneath those feet that danced on dia
mond spray,
Rider of sportive Ocean's reinless steeds
Winner in Mother Carey's sabbath-fray
THEODORE WATTS
269
When, stung by magic of the witch's chant,
They rise, each foamy-crested combatant
They rise and fall and leap aiid foam and
gallop and pant
Till albatross, sea-swallow, and cormorant
Would flee like doves away 1
And shalt thou ride 110 more where thou
bast ridden,
And feast no more in hyaline halls and
caves,
Master of Mother Carey's secrets hidden,
Master most equal of the wind and waves,
Who never, save in stress of angriest blast,
Ask'd ship for shelter, never, till at last
The foam-flakes, hurl'd against the sloping
mast,
Slash'd thee like whirli ng glaives !
Right home to fields no seamew ever kenn'd,
Where scarce the great sea-wanderer
fares with thee,
ll come to take thee nay, 'tis I, thy
friend
Ah, tremble not I come to set thee free ;
[I come to tear this cage from off this wall,
And take thee hence to that fierce festival
Where billows march and winds are musical,
Hymning the Victor-Sea !
Tea, lift thine eyes, my own can bear them
now :
Thou 'rt free ! thou 'rt free. Ah, surely
a bird can smile !
Dost know me, Petrel? Dost remember how
I fed thee in the wake for many a mile,
Whilst thou wouldst pat the waves, then,
rising, take
The morsel up and wheel about the wake ?
Thou 'rt free, thou 'rt free, but for thine
own dear sake
I keep thee caged awhile.
Away to sea ! no matter where the coast :
The road that turns to home turns never
wrong :
Where waves run high my bird will not be
lost:
His home I know : 't is where the winds
are strong,
Where, on her throne of billows, rolling
hoary
And green and blue and splash'd with
sunny glory,
Far, far from shore from farthest prom
ontory
The mighty Mother sings the triumphs of
her story,
Sings to my bird the song 1
THE SONNET'S VOICE
(A METRICAL LESSON BY THE SEASHORE)
YON silvery billows breaking on the beach
Fall back in foam beneath the star-shine
clear,
The while my rhymes are murmuring in
your ear
A restless lore like that the billows teach ;
For on these sonnet-waves iny soul would
reach
From its own depths, and rest within you,
dear,
As, through the billowy voices yearning here,
Great nature strives to find a human speech.
A sonnet is a wave of melody :
From heaving waters of the iiupassion'd
soul
A billow of tidal music one and whole
Flows in the " octave ; " then returning free,
Its ebbing surges in the " sestet " roll
Back to the deeps of Life's tumultuous sea.
COLERIDGE
I SEE thee pine like her in golden story
Who, in her prison, woke and saw, one day,
The gates thrown open saw the sunbeams
play,
With only a web 'tween her and summer's
glory ;
Who, when that web so frail, so transi
tory
It broke before her breath had fallen
away,
Saw other webs and others rise for aye
Which kept her prison'd till her hair wae
hoary.
Those songs half-sung that yet were all-
divine
That woke Romance, the queen, to reign
afresh
Had been but preludes from that lyre of
thine,
Could thy rare spirit's wings have pierced
the mesh
Spun by the wizard who compels the flesh,
But lets the poet see how heav'n can shin*
270
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
THE BREATH OF AVON
TO THE PILGRIMS OF GREATER BRITAIN
ON SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY
WHATE'ER of woe the Dark may hide in
womb
For England, mother of kings of battle and
song
Be it rapine, racial hates, mysterious wrong,
Blizzard of Chance, or fiery dart of Doom
Let breath of Avon, rich of meadow-bloom,
Bind her to that great daughter sever'd
long
To near and far-off children young and
strong
With fetters woven of Avon's flower per
fume.
Welcome, ye English-speaking pilgrims, ye
Whose hands around the world are join'd
by him,
Who make his speech the language of the
sea,
Till winds of Ocean waft from rim to rim
The breath of Avon : let this great day
be
A Feast of Race no power shall ever dim.
II
From where the steeds of Earth's twin
oceans toss
Their manes along Columbia's chariot-
way
From where Australia's long blue billows
play-
From where the morn, quenching the
Southern Cross,
Startling the frigate-bird and albatross
Asleep in air, breaks over Table Bay
Come hither, Pilgrims, where these rushes
sway
'Tween grassy banks of Avon soft as moss !
For, if ye found the breath of Ocean sweet,
Sweeter is Avon's earthy, flowery smell,
DistilFd from roots that feel the coming
spell
Of May, who bids all flowers that lov'd him
meet
In meadows that, remembering Shake
speare's feet,
Hold still a dream of music where they
fell.
THE FIRST KISS
IF only in dreams may man be fully blest,
Is heav'n a dream ? Is she I clasp 'd a
dream ?
Or stood she here even now where dew-
drops gleam
And miles of furze shine golden down the
West?
I seem to clasp her still still on my breast
Her bosom beats, I see the blue eyes
beam :
I think she kiss'd these lips, for now they
seem
Scarce mine : so hallow'd of the lips they
press 'd !
Yon thicket's breath can that be eglan
tine ?
Those birds can they be morning's choris
ters?
Can this be earth ? Can these be banks of
furze ?
Like burning bushes fir'd of God they shine !
I seem to know them, though this body of
mine
Pass'd into spirit at the touch of hers !
TOAST TO OMAR KHAYYAM
AN EAST ANGLIAN ECHO-CHORUS
Chorus
IN this red wine, where Memory's eyes
seem glowing
Of days when wines were bright by
Ouse and Cam,
And Norfolk's foaming nectar glittered,
showing
What beard of gold John Barleycorn was
growing,
We drink to thee whose lore is Nature's
knowing,
Omar Khayyam !
Star-gazer who canst read, when night is
strewing
Her scriptured orbs on Time's frail ori-
flamme,
Nature's proud blazon : " Who shall
bless or damn ?
Life, Death, and Doom are all of my
bestowing ! "
WATTS GRAY
271
Chorus
Oinar Khayyam I
II
Master whose stream of balm and music,
flowing
Through Persian gardens, widened till
it swam
f A fragrant tide no bank of Time shall
dam
Through Suffolk meads where gorse and
may were blowing,
Chorus
Omar Khayy&m !
in
Who blent thy song with sound of cattle
lowing,
And caw of rooks that perch on ewe
and ram,
And hymn of lark, and bleat of orphan
lamb,
And swish of scythe in Bredfield's dewy
mowing ?
Chorus
Omar Khayyam I
IV
'T was Fitz, "Old Fitz," whose knowledge,
farther going
Than lore of Oiuar, " Wisdom's starry
Cham,"
Made richer still thine opulent epigram :
Sowed seed from seed of thine i in mortal
sowing.
Chorut
Omar Khayyam !
In this red wine, where Memory's eyet
seem glowing
Of days when wines were bright by
Ouse and Cam,
And Norfolk's foaming nectar glittered,
showing
What beard of gold John Barleycorn was
growing,
We drink to thee whose lore is Nature's
knowing,
Omar Khayyam !
THE DEAR OLD TOILING ONE
OH, many a leaf will fall to-night,
As she wanders through the wood !
And many an angry gust will break
The dreary solitude.
I wonder if she 's past the bridge,
Where Luggie moans beneath,
While rain-drops clash in planted lines
On rivulet and heath.
Disease hath laid his palsied palm
Upon my aching brow ;
The headlong blood of twenty-one
Is thin and sluggish now.
'T is nearly ten ! A fearful night,
Without a single star
To light the shadow on her soul
With sparkle from afar :
The moon is canopied with clouds,
And her burden it is sore ;
W T hat would wee Jackie do, if he
Should never see her more ?
Ay, light the lamp, and hang it up
At the window fair and free ;
T will be a beacon on the hill
To let your mother see.
And trim it well, my little Ann,
For the night is wet and cold,
And you know the weary, winding way
Across the miry wold.
All drench'd will be her simple gown,
And the wet will reach her skin :
I wish that I could wander down,
And the red quarry win,
To take the burden from her back,
And place it upon mine ;
With words of cheerful condolence,
Not utter'd to repine.
You have a kindly mother, dean,
As ever bore a child,
And Heaven knows I love her well
In passion undenTd.
Ah me ! I never thought that she
Would brave a night Tike this,
While I sat weaving by the fire
A web of fantasies.
How the winds beat this home of ours
With arrow-falls of rain ;
272
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
This lonely home upon the hill
They beat with might and main.
And 'mid the tempest one lone heart
Anticipates the glow,
Whence, all her weary journey done,
Shall happy welcome flow.
'T is after ten ! O, were she here,
Young man although I be,
I could fall down upon her neck,
And weep right gushingly !
I have not lov'd her half enough,
The dear old toiling one,
The silent watcher by my bed,
In shadow or in sun.
I DIE, BEING YOUNG
" WHOM the gods love die young." The
thought is old,
And yet it sooth'd the sweet Athenian mind.
I take it with all pleasure, overbold
Perhaps, yet to its virtue much inclin'd
By an inherent love for what is fair.
This is the utter poetry of woe,
That the bright-flashing gods should cure
despair
By love, and make youth precious here below.
I die, being young ; and, dying, could be
come
A pagan, with the tender Grecian trust.
Let death, the fell anatomy, benumb
The hand that writes, and fill my mouth
with dust :
Chant no funereal theme, but, with a
choral
Hymn, O ye mourners, hail immortal youth
auroral.
MY EPITAPH
BELOW lies one whose name was traced in
sand.
He died, not knowing what it was to
live :
Died, while the first sweet consciousness of
manhood
To maiden thought electrified his soul,
Faint heatings in the calyx of the rose.
Bewilder'd reader, pass without a sigh,
In a proud sorrow ! There is life with
God
In other kingdom of a sweeter air.
In Eden every flower is blown : Amen.
AN EPISODE
VASARI tells that Luca Signorelli,
The morning star of Michael Angelo,
Had but one son, a youth of seventeen sum
mers,
Who died. That day the master at his
easel
Wielded the liberal brush wherewith he
painted
At Orvieto, on the Duomo's walls,
Stern forms of Death and Heaven and Hell
and Judgment.
Then came they to him, and cried : " Thy
son is dead,
Slain in a duel ; but the bloom of life
Yet lingers round red lips and downy
cheek."
Luca spoke not, but listen'd. Next they
bore
His dead son to the silent painting-room,
And left on tiptoe son and sire alone.
Still Luca spoke and groan'd not ; but he
rais'd
The wonderful dead youth, and smooth'd
his hair,
Wash'd his red wounds, and laid him on a
bed,
Naked and beautiful, where rosy curtains
Shed a soft glimmer of uncertain splen
dor
Life-like upon the marble limbs below.
Then Luca seiz'd his palette : hour by
hour
Silence was in the room ; none durst ap
proach :
Morn wore to noon, and noon to eve, when
shyly
A little maid peep'd in, and saw the painter
Painting his dead son with unerring hand-
stroke,
Firm and dry-ey'd before the lordly can*
vas.
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
273
LUX EST UMBRA DEI
NAY, Death, thou art a shadow ! Even as
light
Is but the shadow of invisible God,
And of that shade the shadow is thin Night,
Veiling the earth whereon our feet have
trod ;
So art Thou but the shadow of this life,
Itself the pale and unsubstantial shade
Of living 1 God, fulfill'd by love and strife
Throughout the universe Himself hath
made :
And as frail Night, following the flight of
earth,
Obscures the world we breathe in, for a
while,
So Thou, the reflex of our mortal birth,
Veilest the life wherein we weep and
smile :
But when both earth and life are whirl'd
away,
What shade can shroud us from God's
deathless day ?
THE NIGHTINGALE
I WENT a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her
moan.
Hard task it were to tell how dewy-still
Were flowers and ferns and foliage in
the rays
Of Hesper, white amid the daffodil
Of twilight fleck'd with faintest chryso-
prase ;
And all the while, embower'd in leafy
bays,
The bird prolong' d her sharp soul-thrilling
tone.
I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her
moan.
But as I stood and listened, on the air
Arose another voice more clear and keen,
That startled silence with a sweet despair,
And still'd the bird beneath her leafy
screen :
The star of Love, those lattice-boughs
between,
Grew large and lean'd to listen from his
zone.
I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her
. moan.
The voice, methought, was neither man's
nor boy's,
Nor bird's nor woman's, but all these in
one :
In Paradise perchance such perfect noise
Resounds from angel choirs in unison,
Chanting with cherubim their antiphon
To Christ and Mary on the sapphire throne.
I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her
moan.
Then down the forest aisles there came a
boy,
Unearthly pale, with passion in his eyes ;
Who sang a song whereof the sound was ioy,
But all the burden was of love that dies
And death that lives a song of sobs
and sighs,
A wild swan a note of Death and Love in
one.
I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her
moan.
Love bnm'd within his luminous eyes, and
Death
Had made his fluting voice so keen and
high,
The wild wood trembled as he pass'd be
neath,
With throbbing throat singing, Love-led,
to die :
Then all was hush'd, till in the thicket
nigh
The bird resum'd her sharp soul-thrilling
tone.
I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her
moan.
But in my heart and in my brain the cry,
The wail, the dirge, the dirge of Dath
and Love,
Still throbs and throbs, flute-like, and will
not die,
Piercing and clear the night-bird s
above,
274
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
The aching, anguish'd, wild-swan's note,
whereof
The sweet sad flower of song was over
blown.
I went a roaming through the woods alone,
And heard the nightingale that made her
moan.
THE FALL OF A SOUL
I SAT unsphering Plato ere I slept :
Then through my dream the choir of gods
was borne,
Swift as the wind and splendid as the morn,
Fronting the night of stars ; behind them
swept
Tempestuous darkness o'er a drear descent,
Wherein I saw a crowd of charioteers
Urging their giddy steeds with cries and
cheers,
To join the choir that aye before them
went :
But one there was who fell, with broken car
And horses swooning down the gulf of
gloom ;
Heavenward his eyes, though prescient of
their doom,
Reflected glory like a falling star,
While with wild hair blown back and list
less hands
Ruining he sank toward undiscover'd lands.
FAREWELL
IT is buried and done with,
The love that we knew :
Those cobwebs we spun with
Are beaded with dew.
I lov'd thee ; I leave thee :
To love thee was pain :
I dare not believe thee,
To love thee again.
Like spectres unshriven
Are the years that I lost ;
To thee they were given
Without count of cost.
I cannot revive them
By penance or prayer :
Hell's tempest must drive them
Through turbulent air.
Farewell, and forget me ;
For I too am free
From the shame that beset me,
The sorrow of thee.
IL FIOR DEGLI EROICI FURORI
(SAXIFRAGA PYRAMIDALIS)
I BLOOM but once, and then I perish ;
This plume of snow
No sun or soft south wind will cherish
'T is drooping now.
Black streams beneath me foam and thun
der ;
Their icy breath,
There where the rocks are rent asuuder,
Wooes me with death.
Still like a fair imperial streamer
I float and flaunt ;
I am no light luxurious dreamer,
Whom dangers daunt.
For me no delicate life-lover
Will dare to bow ;
My pyramid of bloom shall cover
No craven's brow.
But should some youth on whom the splen
dor
Of hope is high,
Who loves with love superb and tender
What cannot die,
Pass by this dark and awful dwelling,
He shall not shrink
From slippery rock or sick waves swell
ing
To the black brink ;
But stoop and pluck the song I utter
Of death and joy :
Yea, my free plume of snow shall flutter
To greet the boy.
VENICE
VENICE, thou Siren of sea-cities, wrought
By mirage, built on water, stair o'er stair,
Of sunbeams and cloud-shadows, phantom-
fair,
With naught of earth to mar thy sea-born
thought !
JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS
*75
Thou floating film upon the wonder-fraught
Ocean of dreams ! Thou hast no dream so
rare
As are thy sons and daughters, they who
wear
Foam-flakes of charm from thine enchant
ment caught !
O dark brown eyes ! O tangles of dark hair !
O heaven-blue eyes, blonde tresses where
the breeze
Plays over sun-burn'd cheeks in sea-blown
air !
Firm limbs of moulded bronze ! frank
debonair
Smiles of deep-bosom'd women ! Loves
that seize
Man's soul, and waft her on storm-melo
dies !
THYSELF
GIVE me thyself ! It were s well to cry :
Give me the splendor of this night of June !
Give me yon star upon the swart lagoon
Trembling in unapproach'd serenity !
Our gondola, that four swift oarsmen ply,
Shoots from the darkening Lido's sandy
dune,
Splits with her steel the mirrors of the
moon,
Shivers the star-beams that before us fly.
Give me thyself ! This prayer is even a
knell,
Warning me back to mine own impotence.
Self gives not self; and souls sequester'd
dwell
In the dark fortalice of thought and sense,
Where, though life's prisoners call from
cell to cell,
Each pines alone and may not issue thence.
THE SONNET
I
THE Sonnet is a fruit which long hath slept
And ripen'd on life's sun-warm'd orchard-
wall;
A gem which, hardening in the mystical
Mine of man's heart, to quenchless flame
hath leapt ;
A medal of pure gold art's nympholept
Stamps with love's lips and brows imperial ;
A branch from memory's briar, whereon
the fall
Of thought-eternalizing tears hath wept :
A star that shoots athwart star-steadfast
heaven ;
A fluttering aigrette of toss'd passion's
brine ;
A leaf from youth's immortal missal torn ;
A bark across dark seas of anguish driven ;
A feather dropp'd from breast-wings aqui
line;
A silvery dream shunning red lips of morn
There is no mood, no heart-throb fugitive,
No spark from man's imperishable mind,
No moment of man's will, that may not
find
Form in the Sonnet; and thenceforward
live
A potent elf, by art's imperative
Magic to crystal spheres of song confin'd :
As in the moonstone's orb pent spirits
wind
'Mid dungeon depths day-beams they take
and give.
Spare them no pains ; carve thought's pure
diamond
With fourteen facets, scattering fire and
light:
Uncut, what jewel burns but darkly bright ?
And Prospero vainly waves his runic wand,
If spurning art's inexorable law
In Ariel's prison-sphere he leave one flaw.
Ill
The Sonnet is a world, where feelings caught
In webs of phantasy, combine and foM
Their kindred elements 'neath mystic dews
Shed from the ether round man's dwelling
wrought ;
Distilling heart's content, star-fragrance
fraught
With influences from the breathing fires
Of heaven in everlasting endless gyres
Enfolding and encircling orbs of thought.
Our Sonnet's world hath two fix'd hemi
spheres :
This, where the sun with fierce strength
masculine
Pours his keen rays and bids the noonday
shine ;
That, where the moon and the stars, con
cordant powers,
Shed milder rays, and daylight disappears
In low melodious music of still hours.
276
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
A MUSIC LESSON
FINGERS on the holes, Johnny,
Fairly in a raw :
Lift this and then that,
And blaw, blaw, blaw !
That 's hoo to play, Johnny,
On the pipes sae shrill :
Never was the piper yet
But needit a' his skill.
And lang and sair he tried it, tae,
Afore he wan the knack
O' making bag and pipe gie
His verra yearnin's back.
The echo tae his heart-strings
Frae sic a thing to come ;
Oh, is it no a wonder
Like a voice frae out the dumb ?
Tak' tentie, noo, my Johnny lad,
Ye maunna hurry thro',
Tak' time and try it ower again
Sic a blast ye blew !
It 's no alane by blawing strang,
But eke by blawing true,
That ye can mak' the music
To thrill folk thro' and thro'.
The waik folk and the learning
'T is them that mak's the din ;
But for the finish'd pipers
They count it as a sin :
And maybe it 's the verra same
A' the warld thro',
The learners are the verra ones
That mak' the most ado !
Ye ken the Southrons taunt us
I sayna they 're unfair
Aboot oor squallin' music,
And their taunts hae hurt me sair ;
But if they 'd heard a piper true
At nicht come ower the hill,
Playin' up a pibroch
Upon the wind sae still :
Risin' noo, and fallin' noo,
And floatin' on the air,
The sounds come saftly on ye
Amaist ere ye 're aware,
And wind themsels aboot the heart,
That hasna yet forgot
The witchery o' love and joy
Within some lanely spot :
I 'm sure they wadna taunt us sae,
Nor say the bagpipe 's wild,
Nor speak o' screachin' noises
Enuch to deave a child :
They would say the bagpipe only
Is the voice of hill and glen ;
And would listen to it sorrowing,
Within the haunts of men.
Fingers on the holes, Johnny,
Fairly in a raw :
Lift this and then that,
And blaw, blaw, blaw !
That 's hoo to play, Johnny,
On the pipes sae shrill :
Never was the piper yet
But needit a' his skill.
LANDOR
LIKE crown'd athlete that in a race has run,
And points his finger at those left behind,
And follows on his way as now inclin'd,
With song and laughter in the glowing sun ;
And joys at that which he hath joyous done,
And, like a child, will wanton with the
wind,
And pluck the flowers his radiant brows to
bind
Re-crown himself as conscious he hath won ;
And still regardless of his fellow-men
He follows on his road intent and fain
To please himself, and caring not to gain
The world's applause which he might seek
in vain :
A soldier, yet would, careless, sport and
play
And leave the reckoning for a distant day.
SHELLEY
THE odor of a rose : light of a star :
The essence of a flame blown on by wind,
That lights and warms all near it, bland
and kind,
But aye consumes itself, as though at war
JAPP MONKHOUSE
*77
With what supports and feeds it ; from
afar
It draws its life, but evermore inclin'd
To leap into the flame that makes men
blind
Who seek the secret of all things that are.
Such wert thou, Shelley, bound for airiest
goal :
Interpreter of quintessential things :
Who mounted ever up on eagle-wings
Of phantasy : had aim'd at heaven and
stole
Promethean fire for men to be as gods,
And dwell in free, aerial abodes.
MEMORIES
MY love he went to Burdon Fair,
And of all the gifts that he saw there
Was none could his great love declare ;
SONG
WHO calls me bold because I won my love,
And did not pine,
And waste my life with secret pain, but
strove
To make him mine ?
I us'd no arts ; 't was Nature's self that
taught
My eye to speak,
And bid the burning blush to paint unsought
My flashing cheek ;
That made my voice to tremble when I bid
My love " Goodby,"
So weak that every other sound was hid,
Except a sigh.
Oh, was it wrong to use the truth I knew,
That hearts are mov'd,
And spring warm-struck with life and love
anew,
By being lov'd ?
One night there came a tear, that, big and
loth,
Stole 'neath my brow.
So he brought me marjoram smelling rare
Its sweetness filled all the air.
Oh, the days I dote on yet,
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette I
My love he sail'd across the sea,
And all to make a home for me.
Oh, sweet his last kiss on the lea,
The pansies pluck'd beneath the tree,
When he said, "My love, I'll send for
thee 1 "
Oh, the days I dote on yet,
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette 1
His mother sought for me anon ;
So long my name she would not own.
Ah, gladly would she now atone,
For we together make our moan !
She brought the mignonette I 've
Oh, the days I dote on yet,
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette !
'T was thus I won my heart's own heart,
and both
Are happy now.
A DEAD MARCH
PLAY me a march, low-ton'd and slow
a march for a silent tread,
Fit for the wandering feet of one who
dreams of the silent dead,
Lonely, between the bones below and the
souls that are overhead.
Here for a while they smil'd and sang ;
alive in the interspace,
Here with the grass beneath the foot, anc.
the stars above the face,
Now are their feet beneath the grass, and
whither has flown their grace ?
Who shall assure ns whence they come, or
tell us the way they go ?
Verily, life with them was joy, and. now
they have left us, woe,
Once they were not, and now they are not,
and this is the sum we know.
2 7 8
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Orderly range the seasons due, and orderly
roll the stars.
How shall we deem the soldier brave who
frets of his wounds and scars ?
Are we as senseless brutes that we should
dash at the well-seen bars ?
No, we are here, with feet unfix'd, but ever
as if with lead
Drawn from the orbs which shine above to
the orb on which we tread,
Down to the dust from which we came and
with which we shall mingle dead.
No, we are here to wait, and work, and
strain our banish'd eyes,
Weary and sick of soil and toil, and hungry
and fain for skies
Far from the reach of wingless men, and
not to be scal'd with cries.
No, we are here to bend our necks to the
yoke of tyrant Time,
Welcoming all the gifts he gives us glo
ries of youth and prime,
Patiently watching them all depart as our
heads grow white as rime.
Why do we mourn the days that go for
the same sun shines each day,
Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever
a May her may ;
Sweet as the rose that died last year is the
rose that is born to-day.
Do we not too return, we men, as ever the
round earth' whirls ?
Never a head is dimm'd with gray but an
other is sunn'd with curls ;
She was a girl and he was a boy, but yet
there are boys and girls.
Ah, but alas for the smile of smiles that
never but one face wore ;
Ah, for the voice that has flown away like
a bird to an unseen shore ;
Ah, for the face the flower of flowers
that blossoms on earth no more.
THE SPECTRUM
How many colors here do we see set,
tike rings upon God's finger ? Some say
three,
Some four, some six, some seven. All agree
To left of red, to right of violet,
Waits darkness deep as night and black as
jet.
And so we know what Noah saw we see,
Nor less nor more of God's emblazonry
A shred a sign of glory known not yet.
If red can glide to yellow, green to blue,
What joys may yet await our wider eyes
When we rewake upon a wider shore !
What deep pulsations., exquisite and new !
What keener, swifter raptures may surprise
Men born to see the rainbow and no more !
THE SECRET
SHE passes in her beauty bright
Amongst the mean, amongst the gay,
And all are brighter for the sight,
And bless her as she goes her way.
And now a gleam of pity pours,
And now a spark of spirit flies,
Uncounted, from the unlock'd stores
Of her rich lips and precious eyes.
And all men look, and all men smile,
But no man looks on her as I :
They mark her for a little while,
But I will watch her till I die.
And if I wonder now and then
Why this so strange a thing should be
That she be seen by wiser men
And only duly lov'd by me :
I only wait a little longer,
And watch her radiance in the room ;
Here making light a little stronger,
And there obliterating gloom,
(Like one who, in a tangled way,
Watches the broken sun fall through,
Turning to gold the faded spray,
And making diamonds of dew).
Until at last, as my heart burns,
She gathers all her scatter'd light,
And undivided radiance turns
Upon me like a sea of light.
And then I know they see in part
That which God lets me worship whole/
He gives them glances of her heart,
But me, the sunshine of her soul.
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
279
ftobcrt 25ucljanan
THE BALLAD OF JUDAS IS-
CARIOT
'T WAS the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay in the Field of Blood ;
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Beside the body stood.
Black was the earth by night,
And black was the sky ;
Black, black were the broken clouds,
Tho' the red Moon went by.
'T was the body of Judas Iscariot
Strangled and dead lay there ;
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Look'd on it in despair.
The breath of the World came and went
Like a sick man's in rest ;
Drop by drop on the World's eyes
The dews fell cool and blest.
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did make a gentle moan
" I will bury underneath the ground
My flesh and blood and bone.
" I will bury deep beneath the soil,
Lest mortals look thereon,
And when the wolf and raven come
The body will be gone !
" The stones of the field are sharp as steel,
And hard and bold, God wot ;
And I must bear my body hence
Until I find a spot ! "
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
So grim, and gaunt, and gray,
Rais'd the body of Judas Iscariot,
And carried it away.
And as he bare it from the field
Its touch was cold as ice,
And the ivory teeth within the jaw
Rattled aloud, like dice.
As the soul of Judas Iscariot
Carried its load with pain,
The Eye of Heaven, like a lanthorn's eye,
Open'd and shut again.
Half he walk'd, and half he seem'd
Lifted on the cold wind ;
He did not turn, for chilly hands
Were pushing from behind.
The first place that he came unto
It was the open wold,
And underneath were prickly whins,
And a wind that blew so cold.
The next place that he came unto
It was a stagnant pool,
And when he threw the body in
It floated light as wool.
He drew the body on his back,
And it was dripping chill,
And the next place that he came onto
Was a Cross upon a hill.
A Cross upon the windy hill,
And a Cross on either side,
Three skeletons that swing thereon,
Who had been crucified.
And on the middle cross-bar sat
A white Dove slumbering ;
Dim it sat in the dim light,
With its head beneath its wing.
And underneath the middle Cross
A grave yawn'd wide and vast,
But the soul of Judas Iscariot
Shiver'd, and glided past
The fourth place that he came unto
It was the Brig of Dread,
And the great torrents rushing down
Were deep, and swift, and red.
He dar'd not fling the body in
For fear of faces dim,
And arms were wav'd in the wild water
To thrust it back to him.
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Turn'd from the Brig of Dread,
And the dreadful foam of the wild water
Had splash 'd the body red.
For days and nights ha wander'd on
Upon an open plain,
280
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
And the days went by like blinding mist,
And the nights like rushing rain.
For days and nights he wander'd on,
All thro' the Wood of Woe ;
And the nights went by like moaning wind,
And the days like drifting snow.
S T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Came with a weary face
Alone, alone, and all alone,
Alone in a lonely place !
He wander'd east, he wander'd west,
And heard no human sound ;
For months and years, in grief and tears,
He wander'd round and round.
For months and years, in grief and tears,
He walk'd the silent night ;
Then the soul of Judas Iscariot
Perceiv'd a far-off light.
A far-off light across the waste,
As dim as dim might be,
That came and went like a lighthouse
gleam
On a black night at sea.
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
CrawPd to the distant gleam ;
And the rain came down, and the rain was
blown
Against him with a scream.
For days and nights he wander'd on,
Push'd on by hands behind ;
And the days went by like black, black
rain,
And the nights like rushing wind.
*T was the soul of Judas Iscariot,
Strange, and sad, and tall,
Stood all alone at dead of night
Before a lighted hall.
And the wold was white with snow,
And his foot-marks black and damp,
And the ghost of the silver Moon arose,
Holding her yellow lamp.
And the icicles were on the eaves,
And the walls were deep with white,
And the shadows of the guests within
Pass'd on the window light.
The shadows of the wedding guests
Did strangely come and go,
And the body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretch'd along the snow.
The body of Judas Iscariot
Lay stretch'd along the snow ;
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Ran swiftly to and fro.
To and fro, and up and down,
He ran so swiftly there,
As round and round the frozen Pole
Glideth the lean white bear.
'Twas the Bridegroom sat at the table-
head,
And the lights burn'd bright and clear
" Oh, who is that," the Bridegroom said,
" Whose weary feet I hear ? "
'T was one look'd from the lighted hall,
And answer'd soft and slow,
" It is a wolf runs up and down
With a black track in the snow. "
The Bridegroom in his robe of white
Sat at the table-head
" Oh, who is that who moans without ? "
The blessed Bridegroom said.
'T was one look'd from the lighted hall,
And answer'd fierce and low,
" 'T is the soul of Judas Iscariot
Gliding to and fro."
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Did hush itself and stand,
And saw the Bridegroom at the door
With a light in his hand.
The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he was clad in white,
And far within the Lord's Supper
Was spread so long and bright.
The Bridegroom shaded his eyes and
look'd,
And his face was bright to see
" What dost thou here at the Lord's Sup
per
With thy body's sins ? " said he.
'T was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stood black, and sad, and bare
ROBERT BUCHANAN
281
*I have wander'd many nights and days ;
There is no light elsewhere. "
T was the wedding guests cried out within,
And their eyes were fierce and bright
u Scourge the soul of Judas Iscariot
Away into the night 1 "
The Bridegroom stood in the open door,
And he wav'd hands still and slow,
And the third time that he wav'd his hands
The air was thick with snow.
And of every flake of falling snow,
Before it touch'd the ground,
There came a dove, and a thousand doves
Made sweet sound.
T was the body of Judas Iscariot
Floated away full fleet,
And the wings of the doves that bare it off
Were like its winding-sheet.
was the Bridegroom stood at the open
door,
And beckon'd, smiling sweet ;
was the soul of Judas Iscariot
Stole in, and fell at his feet.
1 The Holy Supper is spread within,
And the many candles shine,
I have waited long for thee
Before I pour'd the wine ! "
supper wine is pour'd at last,
The lights burn bright and fair,
iriot washes the Bridegroom's feet,
And dries them with his hair.
SPRING SONG IN THE CITY
WHO remains in London,
In the streets with me,
Now that Spring is blowing
Warm winds from the sea ;
Now that trees grow green and tall,
Now the sun shines mellow,
And with moist primroses all
English lanes are yellow ?
Little barefoot maiden,
Selling violets blue,
Hast thou ever pictur'd
Where the sweetlings grew ?
Oh, the warm wild woodland ways,
Deep in dewy grasses,
Where the wind-blown shadow strays^
Scented as it passes I
Pedlar breathing deeply,
Toiling into town,
With the dusty highway
You are dusky brown ;
Hast thou seen by daisied leas,
And by rivers flowing,
Lilac-ringlets which the breeze
Loosens lightly blowing ?
Out of yonder wagon
Pleasant hay-scents float,
He who drives it carries
A daisy in his coat :
Oh, the English meadows, fair
Far beyond all praises I
Freckled orchids everywhere
Mid the snow of daisies I
Now in busy silence
Broods the nightingale,
Choosing his love's dwelling
In a dimpled dale ;
Round the leafy bower they raise
Rose-trees wild are springing ;
Underneath, thro' the green haze,
Bounds the brooklet singing.
And his love is silent
As a bird can be,
For the red buds only
Fill the red rose-tree ;
Just as buds and blossoms blow
He 11 begin his tune,
When all is green and roses glow
Underneath the moon.
Nowhere in the valleys
Will the wind be still,
Everything is waving,
Wagging at his will :
Blows the milkmaid's kirtle clean
With her hand press'd on it ;
ghtly o'er the hedge so green
Blows the ploughboy's bonnet.
Oh, to be a-roaroin?
In an English dell I
Every nook is wealthy,
All the world looks well,
282
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Tinted soft the Heavens glow,
Over Earth and Ocean,
Waters flow, breezes blow,
All is light and motion !
THE WAKE OF TIM O'HARA
(SEVEN DIALS)
To the Wake of O'Hara
Came company ;
All St. Patrick's Alley
Was there to see,
With the friends and kinsmen
Of the family.
On the long deal table lay Tim in white,
And at his pillow the burning light.
Pale as himself, with the tears on her
cheek,
The mother receiv'd us, too full to speak ;
But she heap'd the fire, and on the board
Set the black bottle with never a word,
While the company gather'd, one and all,
Men and women, big and small :
Not one in the Alley but felt a call
To the Wake of Tim O'Hara.
At the face of O'Hara,
All white with sleep,
Not one of the women
But took a peep,
And the wives new-wedded
Began to weep.
The mothers gather'd round about,
And prais'd the linen and laying out,
For white as snow was his winding-sheet,
And all was peaceful, and clean, and sweet ;
And the old wives, praising the blessed
dead,
Were thronging around the old press-bed,
Where O'Hara's widow, tatter'd and torn,
Held to her bosom the babe new-born,
And star'd all around her, with eyes for
lorn,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.
For the heart of O'Hara
Was good as gold,
And the life of O'Hara
Was bright and bold,
And his smile was precious
To young and old !
Gay as a guinea, wet or dry,
With a smiling mouth, and a twinkliug
eye !
Had ever an answer for chaff and fun ;
Would fight like a lion, with any one !
Not a neighbor of any trade
But knew some joke that the boy had
made ;
Not a neighbor, dull or bright,
But minded something frolic or fight,
And whisper' d it round the fire that night.
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.
"To God be glory
In death and life,
He 's taken O'Hara
From trouble and strife ! "
Said one-eyed Biddy,
The apple- wife.
"God bless old Ireland !" said Mistress
Hart,
Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart ;
" God bless old Ireland till all be done,
She never made wake for a better son ! "
And all join'd chorus, and each one said
Something kind of the boy that was dead ;
And the bottle went round from lip to lip,
And the weeping widow, for fellowship,
Took the glass of old Biddy and had a sip,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.
Then we drank to O'Hara
With drams to the brim,
While the face of O'Hara
Look'd on so grim,
In the corpse-light shining
Yellow and dim.
The cup of liquor went round again,
And the talk grew louder at every drain ;
Louder the tongue of the women grew !
The lips of the boys were loosening too !
The widow her weary eyelids clos'd,
And, soothed by the drop o' drink, she
doz'd ;
The mother brighten'd and laugh'd to hear
Of O'Hara's fight with the grenadier,
And the hearts of all took better cheer,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.
Tho' the face of O'Hara
Look'd on so wan,
In the chimney-corner
The row began
. Lame Tony was in it,
The oyster-man ;
For a dirty low thief from the North
came near,
And whistled " Boyne Water " in bis ear,
ROBERT BUCHANAN
ind Tony, with never a word of grace,
lung out his fist in the blackguard's face ;
And the girls and women sereani'd out for
fright,
And the men that were drunkest began to
fight :
Over the tables and chairs they threw,
The corpse-light tumbled, the trouble
grew,
The new-born join'd in the hullabaloo,
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.
" Be still ! be silent I
Ye do a sin !
Shame be his portion
Who dares begin ! "
'T was Father O'Connor
Just enter'd in !
All look'd down, and the row was done,
And sham'd and sorry was every one ;
But the Priest just smil'd quite easy and
free
* Would ye wake the poor boy from his
sleep ? " said he :
And he said a prayer, with a shining face,
Till a kind of brightness filPd the place ;
The women lit up the dim corpse-light,
The men were quieter at the sight,
And the peace of the Lord fell on all that
night
At the Wake of Tim O'Hara.
TWO SONS
I HAVE two sons, wife
Two, and yet the same ;
One his wild way runs, wife,
Bringing us to shame.
The one is bearded, sunburnt, grim, and
fights across the sea,
The other is a little child who sits upon
your knee.
One is fierce and cold, wife,
As the wayward deep ;
Him no arms could hold, wife,
Him no breast could keep.
03 has tried our hearts for many a year,
net broken them ; for he
Is still the sinless little one that sits upon
your knee.
One may fall in fight, wife
Is he not our son ?
Pray with all your might, wife,
For the wayward one ;
Pray for the dark, rough soldier, who figbU
across tin- -,.;,,
Because you love the little shade who smiles
upon your knee*.
One across the foam, wife,
As I speak may fall ;
But this one at home, wife,
Cannot die at all.
They both are only one ; and how thankful
should we be,
We cannot lose the darling son who sits
upon your knee T
ON A YOUNG POETESS'S GRAVE
UNDER her gentle seeing,
In her delicate little hand,
They placed the Book of Being,
To read and understand.
The Book was mighty and olden,
Yea, worn and eaten with age ;
Though the letters look'd great and golden,
She could not read a page.
The letters flutter'd before her,
And all look'd sweetly wild :
Death saw her, and bent o'er her,
As she pouted her lips and smil'd.
And weary a little with tracing
The Book, she look'd aside,
And lightly smiling, and placing
A Flower in its leaves, she died.
She died, but her sweetness fled not,
As fly the things of power,
For the Book wherein she read not
Is the sweeter for the Flower.
THE SUMMER POOL
THERE is a singing in the summer air,
The blue and brown moths flutter o'er the
grass,
The stubble bird is creaking in the wheat,
And perch'd upon the honeysuckle-hedge
Pipes the green linnet. Oh, the golden
world !
The stir of life on every blade of grass,
The motion and the joy on every bough,
The glad feast everywhere, for things that
love
The sunshine, and for things that love U*
shade!
28 4
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Aimlessly wandering with weary feet,
Watching the wool-white clouds that wan
der by,
I come upon a lonely place of shade,
A still green Pool, where with soft sound
and stir
The shadows of o'erhanging branches sleep,
tSave where they leave one dreamy space of
blue,
O'er whose soft stillness ever and anon
The feathery cirrus blows. Here un
aware
I pause, and leaning on my staff I add
A shadow to the shadows ; and behold !
Dim dreams steal down upon me, with a
hum
Of little wings, a murmuring of boughs,
The dusky stir and motion dwelling here,
'Within this small green world. O'ershad-
ow'd
By dusky greenery, tho' all around
The sunshine throbs on fields of wheat
and bean,
Downward I gaze into the dreamy blue,
And pass into a waking sleep, wherein
The green boughs rustle, feathery wreaths
of cloud
Pass softly, piloted by golden airs :
The air is still, no birds sing any
more,
And helpless as a tiny flying thing,
I am alone in all the world with God.
The wind dies not a leaf stirs on the
Pool
The fly scarce moves ; earth seems to hold
her breath
Until her heart stops, listening silently
For the far footsteps of the coming rain !
While thus I pause, it seems that I have
gain'd
New eyes to see ; my brain grows sensitive
To trivial things that, at another hour,
Had pass'd unheeded. Suddenly the air
Shivers, the shadows in whose midst I
stand
.Tremble and blacken the blue eye o' the
' Pool
is clos'd and clouded ; with a sudden gleam
Oiling its wings, a swallow darteth past,
And weedling flowers beneath my feet
thrust up
Their leaves, to feel the fragrant shower.
Oh, hark!
The thirsty leaves are troubled into sighs,
And up above me, on the glistening boughs,
Patters the summer rain !
Into a nook,
Screen'd by thick foliage of oak and beech,
I creep for shelter ; and the summer shower
Murmurs around me. Oh, the drowsy
sounds !
The pattering rain, the numerous sigh of
leaves,
The deep, warm breathing of the scented
air,
Sink sweet into my soul until at last
Comes the soft ceasing of the gentle fall,
And lo ! the eye of blue within the Pool
Opens again, while with a silvern gleam
Dew-diamonds twinkle moistly on the
leaves,
Or, shaken downward by the summer wind,
Fall melting on the Pool in rings of light !
WE ARE CHILDREN
CHILDREN indeed are we children that
wait
Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high
Stretch the sad vapors and the voiceless
sky ;
The house is fair, yet all is desolate
Because our Father comes not ; clouds of
fate
Sadden above us shivering we espy
The passing rain, the cloud before the gate,
And cry to one another, " He is nigh ! "
At early morning, with a shining Face,
He left us innocent and lily-crown'd ;
And now this late night cometh on
apace
We hold each other's hands and look
around,
Frighted at our own shades ! Heaven send
us grace !
When He returns, all will be sleeping
sound.
WHEN WE ARE ALL ASLEEP
WHEN He returns, and finds the world so
drear,
All sleeping, young and old, unfair and
fair,
Will he stoop down and whisper in each
ear,
" Awaken ! " or for pity's sake forbear,
ROBERT BUCHANAN
Saying, "How shall I meet their frozen
stare
Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear ?
How shall I comfort them in their despair,
If they cry out, * Too late ! let us sleep
here'?"
Perchance He will not wake us up, but
when
He sees us look so happy in our rest,
Will murmur, " Poor dead women and dead
men I
Dire was their doom, and weary was their
quest.
Wherefore awake them into life again ?
Let them sleep on untroubled it is best."
THE DREAM OF THE WORLD
WITHOUT DEATH
FROM " THE BOOK OF ORM "
Now, sitting by her side, worn out with
weeping,
Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice inton
ing :
Crying aloud, " The Master on His throne
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,
And beckoneth back the angel men name
Death.
" And at His feet the mighty Angel kneel-
eth,
Breathing not; and the Lord doth look
upon him,
Saying, 'Thy wanderings on earth are
ended.'
u And lo ! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle
Even at the silver gates of heaven,
Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,
And puts his silence among men no longer."
The world was very quiet. Men in traffic
Cast looks over their shoulders ; pallid sea
men
Shiver'd to walk upon the decks alone ;
And women barr'd their doors with bars of
iron,
In the silence of the night ; and at the sun
rise
Trembled behind the husbandmen afield.
I could not see a kirkyard near or fax ;
I thirsted for a green rave, and my vision
Was weary for the white gleam of a tomb
stone.
But barkening dumbly, ever and anon
I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,
And felt the cold wind of a lost one's going.
One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,
And faded in a darkness ; and that other
Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could
not perish.
One struck his aged mother on the mouth,
And she vanish'd with a gray grief from
his hearth-stone.
One melted from her bairn, and on the
ground
With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn laj
smiling.
And many made a weeping among moun
tains,
And hid themselves in caverns, and were
drunken.
I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,
Whose side roll'd up from winter into
summer,
Crying, " I am grievous for my children."
I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,
Crying, " Burial in the breast of me were
better,
Yea, burial in the salt flags and green
crystals."
I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,
Saying, "The thing ye curs'd hath been
abolish'd
Corruption and decay, and dissolution ! '
And the world shriek'd, and the summer
time was bitter,
And men and women fear'd the air behind
them ;
And for lack of its green graves the world
was hateful.
Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of ft M
gull :
286
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Saying, " O Angel of the Lord, come hither,
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace
him.
" I curse tliee that I cannot look upon him !
I curse thee that I know not he is sleep
ing !
Yet know that he has vanish'd upon God !
<* I laid my little girl upon a wood-bier,
And very sweet she seem'd, and near unto
me ;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was
comfort.
" I put my silver mother in the darkness,
And kiss'd her, and was solaced by her
kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above
her.
"And green, green were their sleeping-
places,
So green that it was pleasant to remem
ber
That I and my tall man would sleep beside
them.
" The closing of dead eyelids is not dread
ful,
For comfort comes upon us when we close
them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows famil
iar ; .
" And we can sit above them where they
slumber,
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near
them.
"But to reach out empty arms is surely
dreadful,
And to feel the hollow empty world is
awful,
And bitter grows the silence and the dis
tance.
" There is no space for grieving or for weep
ing ;
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness ! "
Now behold I saw a woman in a mud-hut
Raking the white spent embers with her
fingers,
And fouling her bright hair witl the white
ashes.
Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes s
Her eyes with dust were blinded ; and her
sorrow
Sobb'd in the throat of her like gurgling
water.
And all around the voiceless hills were
hoary,
But red lights scorch'd their edges ; and
above her
There was a soundless trouble of the vapors.
" Whither, and whither," said the woman,
" O Spirit of the Lord, hast thou couvey'u
them,
My little ones, my little son and daughter ?
" For, lo ! we wander'd forth at early morn
ing*
And winds were blowing round us, and
their mouths
Blew rose-buds to the rose-buds, and their
eyes
"Look'd violets at the violets, and their
hair
Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their
passing
Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind
i pi
the
" And suddenly my little son looked upward
And his eyes were dried like dew-drops ;
and his going
Was like a blow of fire upon my face j
" And my little son was gone. My little
daughter
Look'd round me for him, clinging to my
vesture ;
But the Lord had drawn him from me, and
I knew it
" By the sign He gives the stricken, that
the lost one
Lingers nowhere on the earth, on the hill
or valley,
Neither underneath the grasses nor the
tree-roots.
ROBERT BUCHANAN
11 And my shriek was like the splitting of an
ice-reef,
And I sank among my hair, and all my
palm
Was moist and warm where the little hand
had till'd it.
* Tl\en I fled and sought him wildly, hither
and thither
Though I knew that he was stricken from
ine wholly .
By the token that the Spirit gives the
stricken.
" I sought him in the sunlight and the star
light,
I sought him in great forests, and in waters
Where I saw my own pale image looking
at me.
"And I forgot my little bright-hair'd
daughter,
Though her voice was like a wild-bird's
far behind me,
Till the voice ceas'd, and the universe was
silent.
" And stilly, in the starlight, came I back
ward
To the forest where I miss'd him ; and no
voices
Brake the stillness as I stoop'd down in
the starlight,
" And saw two little shoes filled up with
dew,
And no mark of little footsteps any far
ther,
And knew my little daughter had gone
also."
But beasts died ; yea, the cattle in the
yoke,
The milk-cow in the meadow, and the
sheep,
And the dog upon the doorstep : and men
envied.
And birds died ; yea, the eagle at the sun-
gate,
The swan upon the waters, and the farm-
fowl,
And the swallows on the housetops : and
men envied.
And reptiles ; yea, the toad upon the road*
side,
The slimy, speckled snake among the
grass,
The lizard on the ruin : and men envied.
The dog in lonely places cried not over
The body of his master; but it iniss'd
him,
And whin'd into the air, and died, and rot
ted.
The traveller's horse lay swollen in the
pathway,
And the blue fly fed upon it ; but no trav
eller
Was there ; nay, not his footprint on the
ground.
The cat mew'd in the midnight, and the
blind
Grave a rustle, and the lamp burnt blue
and faint,
And the father's bed was empty in the
morning.
The mother fell to sleep beside the cra
dle,
Rocking it, while she slumber'd, with her
foot,
And waken'd, and the cradle there was
empty.
I saw a two-years' child, and he was play
ing;
And he found a dead white bird upon the
doorway,
And laugh'd, and ran to show it to his
mother.
The mother moan'd, and clutch'd him, and
was bitter,
And flung the dead white bird across the
threshold ;
And arother white bird flitted round and
round it,
And utter'd a sharp cry, and twittei'd and
twitter'd,
And lit beside its dead mate, and grew
Strewing it over with green leaves and yel
low.
288
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
So far, so far to seek for were the limits
Of affliction; and men's terror grew a
homeless
Terror, yea, and a- fatal sense of blankness.
There was no little token of distraction,
There was no visible presence of bereave
ment,
Such as the mourner easeth out his heart
on.
There was no comfort in the slow farewell,
No gentle shutting of beloved eyes,
Nor beautiful breedings over sleeping fea
tures.
There were no kisses on familiar faces,
No weaving of white grave-clothes, no
last pondering
Over the still wax cheeks and folded fin
gers.
There was no putting tokens under pillows,
There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,
Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.
There were no churchyard paths to walk
on, thinking
How near the well-beloved ones are lying.
There were no sweet green graves to sit
and muse on,
Till grief should grow a summer medita
tion,
The shadow of the passing of an angel,
And sleeping should seem easy, and not
cruel.
Nothing but wondrous parting and a
blankness.
But I woke, and, lo ! the burthen was up
lifted,
And I pray'd within the chamber where
she slumber'd,
.And my tears flow'd fast and free, but
were not bitter.
J eas'd my heart three days by watching
near her,
And made her pillow sweet with scent and
flowers,
And could bear at last to put her in the
darkness.
And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very
slowly,
And the priests were in their vestments,
and the earth
Dripp'd awful on the hard wood, yet I bore
it.
And I cried, " O unseen Sender of Corrup
tion,
I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy.
Which softeneth the mystery and the park
ing:
" I bless thee for the change and for the
comfort,
The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen
fingers,
For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corrup
tion."
THE FAERY FOSTER-MOTHER
BRIGHT Eyes, Light Eyes ! Daughter of a
Fay!
I had not been a wedded wife a twelve
month and a day,
I had not nurs'd my little one a month
upon my knee,
When down among the blue-bell banks
rose elfins three times three,
They gripp'd me by the raven hair, I could
not cry for fear,
They put a hempen rope around my waist
and dragg'd me here,
They made me sit and give thee suck as
mortal mothers can,
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! strange and
weak and wan !
Dim Face, Grim Face ! lie ye there so
still ?
Thy red, red lips are at my breast, andthou
may'st suck thy fill ;
But know ye, tho' I hold thee firm, anc!
rock thee to and fro,
'T is not to soothe thee into sleep, but just
to still my woe ?
And know ye, when I lean so calm against
the wall of stone,
'T is when I shut my eyes and try to think
thou art mine own ?
And know ye, tho' my milk be here, my
heart is far away,
Dim Face, Grim Face ! Daughter of a
Fay!
ROBERT BUCHANAN
289
Gold Hair, Cold Hair ! Daughter to a Ki
Wrapp'd in bunds of snow-white silk with
jewels glittering,
Tiny slippers of the gold upon thy feet so
thin,
Silver cradle velvet-lin'd for thee to slum
ber in,
Pygmy pages, crimson-hair'd, to serve thee
on their knees,
To fan thy face with ferns and bring thee
honey bags of bees,
I was but a peasant lass, my babe had but
the milk,
Gold Hair, Cold Hair ! raimented in silk !
Pale Thing, Frail Thing ! dumb and weak
and thin,
Altho' thou ne'er dost utter sigh thou'rt
shadow'd with a sin ;
Thy minnie scorns to suckle thee, thy min-
nie is an elf,
Upon a bed of rose's-leaves she lies and
fans herself ;
And though my heart is aching so for one
afar from me,
I often look into thy face and drop a tear
for thee,
And I am but a peasant born, a lowly cot
ter's wife,
Pale Thing, Frail Thing ! sucking at my life !
Weak Thing, Meek Thing ! take no blame
from me^
Altho' my babe may moan for lack of what
I give to thee ;
For though thou art a faery child, and
though thou art my woe,
To feel thee sucking at my breast is all
the bliss I know ;
It soothes me, tho' afar away I hear my
daughter call,
My heart were broken if I felt no little
lips at all !
If I had none to tend at all, to be its nurse
and slave,
Weak Thing, Meek Thing! I should
shriek and rave I
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! lying on my knee !
If soon I be not taken back unto mine
own countree,
To feel my own babe's little lips, as I am
feeling thine,
To smooth the golden threads of hair, to
see the blue eyes shine,
I'll lean my head against the vail and
close iny weary eyes.
And think my own babe draws the milk
with balmy pauts and sighs,
And smile and bless my little one and
sweetly pass away,
Bright Eyes, Light Eyes ! Daughter of a
Fay!
THE CHURCHYARD
How slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clock's green-mantled face I
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace ;
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower,
The tame doves hover round and round ;
Below, the slow grass hour by hour
Makes green God's sleeping-ground.
All moves, but nothing here is swift ;
The grass grows deep, the green boughs
shoot;
From east to west the shadows drift ;
The earth feels heavenward underfoot ;
The slow stream through the bridge doth
stray
With water-lilies on its marge,
And slowly, pil'd with scented hay,
Creeps by the silent barge.
All stirs, but nothing here is Joud :
The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries ;
Faint, far up, under a white cloud,
The lark trills soft to earth and skies ;
And underneath the green graves rest ;
And through the place, with slow foot
falls,
With snowy cambric on his breast,
The old gray Vicar crawls.
And close at hand, to see him come,
Clustering at the playground gate,
The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb
And bashful, hang the head and wait ;
The little maidens curtsey deep.
The boys their forelocks touch
while,
The Vicar sees them, half asleep,
And smiles a sleepy smile.
Slow as the hand on the clock's face.
Slow as the white cloud in the sky,
He cometh now with tottering pace
To the old vicarage hard by
290
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Sniother'd it stands in ivy leaves,
Laurels and yews make dark the ground ;
The swifts that build beneath the eaves
Wheel in still circles round.
And from the portal, green and dark,
He glances at the church-clock old
Gray soul ! why seek his eyes to mark
The creeping of that finger cold ?
He cannot see, but still as stone
He pauses, listening for the chime,
And hears from that green tower intone
The eternal voice of Time.
A SONG OF WINTER
BARB'D blossom of the guarded gorse,
I love thee where I see thee shine :
Thou sweetener of our common-ways,
And brightener of our wintry days.
Flower of the gorse, the rose is dead,
Thou art undying, O be mine !
Be mine with all thy thorns, and prest
Close on a heart that asks not rest.
I pluck thee and thy stigma set
Upon my breast and on my brow ;
Blow, buds, and plenish so my wreath
That none may know the wounds beneath.
crown of thorn that seem'st of gold,
No festal coronal art thou ;
Thy honey'd blossoms are but hives
That guard the growth of winged lives.
1 saw thee in the time of flowers
As sunshine spilPd upon the land,
Or burning bushes all ablaze
With sacred fire ; but went my ways ;
I went my ways, and as I went
Pluck'd kindlier blooms on either hand ;
Now of those blooms so passing sweet
.None lives to stay my passing feet.
And still thy lamp upon the hill
Feeds on the autumn's dying sigh,
And from thy midst comes murmuring
A music sweeter than in spring.
Barb'd blossoms of the guarded gorse,
Be mine to wear until I die,
And mine the wounds of love which still
Bear witness to his human will.
TO A MOTH THAT DRINKETH
OF THE RIPE OCTOBER
A MOTH belated, sun and zephyr-kist,
Trembling about a pale arbutus bell,
Probing to wildering depths its honey'd
cell,
A noonday thief, a downy sensualist !
Not vainly, sprite, thou drawest careless
breath,
Strikest ambrosia from the cool-cupp'd
flowers,
And flutterest through the soft, uncounted
hours,
To drop at last in unawaited death ;
'T is something to be glad ! and those fine
thrills,
Which move thee, to my lip have drawn
the smile
Wherewith we look on joy. Drink ! drown
thine ills,
If ill have any part in thee ; erewhile
May the pent force thy bounded life, set
free,
Fill larger sphere with equal ecstasy.
II
With what fine organs art thou dower'd,
frail elf !
Thy harp is pitch'd too high for dull annoy.
Thy life a love-feast, and a silent joy,
As mute and rapt as Passion's silent self.
I turn from thee, and see the swallow
sweep
Like a wing'd will, and the keen-scented
hound
That snuffs with rapture at the tainted
ground,
All things that freely course, that swim 01
leap,
EMILY PFEIFFER FREDERIC MYERS
291
Then, hearing glad-voiced creatures men
call dumb,
I feel my heart, oft sinking 'neath the
weight
Of Nature's sorrow, lighten at the sum
Of Nature's joy ; its half-unfolded fate
Breathes hope for all but those beneath
the ban
Of the inquisitor and tyrant, man.
TO THE HERALD HONEYSUCKLE
CP Honeysuckle ! in the silent eve
r hen wild-rose cups are clos'd, and when
each bird
Is sleeping by its mate, then all unheard
The dew's soft kiss thy wakeful lips receive.
T is then the sighs that throng them seem
to weave
A spell whereby the drowsy night is stirr'd
To fervid meanings, which no fullest
word
Of speech or song so sweetly could achieve.
Herald of bliss ! whose fragrant trumpet
blew
Love's title to our hearts ere love was
known,
'T was well thy flourish told a tale so
true,
Well that Love's dazzling presence was
foreshown ;
Had his descent on us been as the dew
On thee, our rarer sense he had o'er-
thrown.
jfrcberic f&ifttam I)cnrp
FROM "SAINT PAUL"
as some bard on isles of the Aegean
Lovely and eager when the earth was
young,
irning to hurl his heart into a paean,
Praise of the hero from whose loins he
sprung ;
[e, I suppose, with such a care to carry,
Wander'd disconsolate and waited long,
liting his breast, wherein the notes would
tarry,
Chiding the slumber of the seed of song :
Then in the sudden glory of a minute
Airy and excellent the proem came,
Rending his bosom, for a god was in it,
Waking the seed, for it had burst in flame.
So even I athirst for his inspiring,
I who have talk'd with Him forget again,
Yes, many days with sobs and with desiring
Offer to God a patience and a pain ;
Then through the mid complaint of my
confession,
Then through the pang and passion of
my prayer,
Leaps with a start the shock of his posses
sion,
Thrills me and touches, and the Lord is
there.
Lo, if some pen should write upon your
rafter
MENE and MENE in the folds of flame,
Think you could any memories thereafter
Wholly retrace the couplet as it came ?
Lo, if some strange intelligible thunder
Sang to the earth the secret of a star,
Scarce could ye catch, for terror and for
wonder,
Shreds of the story that was peal'd so
far.
Scarcely I catch the words of his reveal
ing.
Hardly I hear Him, dimly understand,
Only the Power that is within me pealing
Lives on ray lips and beckons to my hand.
Whoso has felt the Spirit of the Highest
Cannot confound nor doubt Him nor
deny :
Yea, with one voice, O world, though thoo
deniest,
Stand thou on that side, for on this am I.
Rather the earth shall doubt when her
retrieving
Pours in the rain and rushes from the
sod,
Rather than he for whom the great
ceiving
Stirs in his soul to quicken into God.
2 9 2
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Ay, though thou then shouldst strike him
from his glory
Blind and tormented, madden'd and
alone,
Even on the cross would he maintain his
story,
Yes, and in hell would whisper, I have
known.
A SONG
THE pouring music, soft and strong,
Some God within her soul has lit,
Her face is rosy with the song
And her gray eyes are sweet with it.
A woman so with singing fir'd,
Has earth a lovelier sight than this ?
Oh, he that look'd had soon desir'd
Those lips to fasten with a kiss.
But let not him that race begin
Who seeks not toward its utmost goal ;
Give me an hour for drinking in
Her fragrant and her early soul.
To happier hearts I leave the rest,
Who less and more than I shall know,
For me, world-weary, it is best
To listen for an hour and go :
To lift her hand, and press, and part,
And think upon her long and long,
And bear for ever in my heart
The tender traces of a song.
ON A GRAVE AT GRINDEL-
WALD
HERE let us leave him ; for his shroud the
snow,
For funeral-lamps he has the planets
seven,
For a great sign the icy stair shall go
Between the heights to heaven.
One moment stood he as the angels
stand,
High in the stainless eminence of air ;
The next, he was not, to his fatherland
Translated unaware.
A LAST APPEAL
SOMEWHERE, somewhere, God un
known,
Exist and be !
1 am dying ; I am all alone ;
I must have thee !
God ! God ! my sense, my soul, my all,
Dies in the cry :
Saw'st thou the faint star flame and fall ?
Ah ! it was I.
IMMORTALITY
So when the old delight is born anew,
And God re-animates the early bliss,
Seems it not all as one first trembling kiss
Ere soul knew soul with whom she has to
do?
O nights how desolate, O days how few,
O death in life, if life be this, be this !
O weigh'd alone as one shall win or miss
The faint eternity which shines therethro' !
Lo, all that age is as a speck of sand
Lost on the long beach where the tides are
free,
And no man metes it in his hollow hand
Nor cares to ponder it, how small it be ;
At ebb it lies forgotten on the land
And at full tide forgotten in the sea.
A LETTER FROM NEWPORT
(paly K' adavdrovs Kal ay^ipcas [s./Jifvai aiel
its r6r' firavridfffl or' 'idoves &6pooi flev.
THE crimson leafage fires the lawn,
The pil'd hydrangeas blazing glow ;
How blue the vault of breezy dawn
Illumes the Atlantic's crested snow !
'Twixt sea and sands how fair to ride
Through whispering airs a starlit way,
And watch those flashing towers divide
Heaven's darkness from the darkling
bay!
Ah, friend, how vain their pedant's part,
Their hurrying toils how idly spent,
How have they wrong'd the gentler heart
Which thrills the awakening continent,
Who have not learnt on this bright shore
What sweetness issues from the strong,
Where flowerless forest, cataract-roar,
Have found a blossom and a song !
FREDERIC MYERS DOWDEN
293
Ah, what imperial force of fate
Links our one race in high emprize !
Nor aught henceforth can separate
Those glories mingling as they rise ;
For one in heart, as one in speech,
At last have Child and Mother grown,
Fair Figures ! honoring each in each
A beauty kindred with her own.
Through English eyes more calmly soft
Looks from gray deeps the appealing
charm ;
Reddens on English cheeks more oft
The rose of innocent alarm ;
Our old-world heart more gravely feels,
Has learnt more force, more self-con
trol ;
For us through sterner music peals
The full accord of soul and soul.
But ah, the life, the smile untaught,
The floating presence feathery-fair !
The eyes and aspect that have caught
The brilliance of Columbian air !
No oriole through the forest flits
More sheeny-plum'd, more gay and free ;
On no nymph's marble forehead sits
Proudlier a glad virginity.
So once the Egyptian, gravely bold,
Wander'd the Ionian folk among.
Heard from their high Letoon roll'd
That song the Delian maidens sung ;
Danced in his eyes the dazzling gold,
For with his voice the tears had sprung,
" They die not, these ! they wax not old,
They are ever-living, ever-young ! "
Spread then, great land ! thine arms afar,
Thy golden harvest westward roll ;
Banner with banner, star with star,
Ally the tropics and the pole ;
There glows no gem than these more bright
From ice to fire, from sea to sea ;
Blossoms no fairer flower to light
Through all thine endless empery.
And thou come hither, friend ! thou too
Their kingdom enter as a boy ;
Fed with their glorious youth renew
Thy ( 1 i 1 1 1 1 ii '( I prerogative of joy :
Come with small question, little thought,
Through thy worn veins what pulse
shall flow,
With what regrets, what fancies fraught,
Shall silver-footed summer go :
If round one fairest face shall meet
Those many dreams of many fair,
And wandering homage seek the feet
Of one sweet queen, and linger there ;
Or if strange winds betwixt be driven,
Unvoyageable oceans foam,
Nor this new earth, this airy heaven,
For thy sad heart can mid a home.
I SAW, I SAW THE LOVELY
CHILD
I SAW, I saw the lovely child,
I watch'd her by the way,
I learnt her gestures sweet and wild,
Her loving eyes and gay.
Her name ? I heard not, nay, nor care :
Enough it was for me
To find her innocently fair
And delicately free.
Oh, cease and go ere dreams be done,
Nor trace the angel's birth,
Nor find the Paradisal one
A blossom of the earth !
Thus is it with our subtlest joys,
How quick the soul's alarm !
How lightly deed or word destroys
That evanescent charm !
It comes unbidden, comes unbought,
Unfetter'd flees r way;
His swiftest and his sweetest thought
Can never poet say.
<&toarl> SDotofccn
RENUNCIANTS
SEEMS not our breathing light ?
Sound not our voices free ?
Bid to Life's festal bright
No gladder guests there be.
Ah stranger, lay aside
Cold prudence ! I divine
The secret you would hide,
And you conjecture mine.
294
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
You too have temperate eyes,
Have put your heart to school,
Are prov'd. I recognize
A brother of the rule.
I knew it by your lip,
A something when you smil'd,
Which meant " close scholarship,
A master of the guild."
Well, and how good is life ;
Good to be born, have breath,
The calms good, and the strife,
Good life, and perfect death.
Come, for the dancers wheel,
Join we the pleasant din,
Comrade, it serves to feel
The sackcloth next the skin.
LEONARDO'S "MONNA LISA'*
MAKE thyself known, Sibyl, or let despair
Of knowing thee be absolute : I wait
Hour-long and waste a soul. What word of
fate
Hides 'twixt the lips which smile and still
forbear ?
Secret perfection ! Mystery too fair !
Tangle the sense no more, lest I should hate
The delicate tyranny, the inviolate
Poise of thy folded hands, the fallen hair.
Nay, nay, I wrong thee with rough words \
still be
Serene, victorious, inaccessible ;
Still smile but speak not ; lightest irony
Lurk ever 'ueath thy eyelids' shadow ; still
O'ertop our knowledge ; Sphinx of Italy,
Allure us and reject us at thy will !
TWO INFINITIES
A LONELY way, and as I went my eyes
Could not unfasten from the Spring's
sweet things,
Lush-sprouted grass, and all that climbs
and clings
In loose, deep hedges, where the primrose
lies
In her own fairness, buried blooms surprise
The plunderer bee and stop his murmur-
ings,
And the glad flutter of a finch's wings
Outstartle small blue-speckled butterflies.
Blissfully did one speedwell plot beguile
My whole heart long ; I lov'd each sepa
rate flower,
Kneeling. I look'd up suddenly Dear
God!
There stretch'd the shining plain for many
a mile,
The mountains rose with what invincible
power !
And how the sky was fathomless and broad !
FIRST OR LAST?
A WIFE TO HER HUSBAND
MY life ebbs from me I must die.
Must die it has a ghostly sound,
A far-off thunder drawing nigh,
An echo as from underground.
Yes, I must die who fain would live ;
You cannot give me life alas !
Dear Love of mine, you can but give
One latest kiss before I pass.
Dear, we have had our summer bliss,
Kisses on cheek, and lip, and brow,
But soul to soul, as now we kiss,
I think we never kiss'd till now.
Fclep
Give both your hands, and let the earth
Roll onward let what will befall.
This is an hour of wondrous birth,
And can it be the end of all ?
Ah, your sad face ! I know you think
(Clasp me, O love, your faith is mine,
Only my weakness made me shrink)
That I am standing on the brink
Of night where never dawn will shine>
Of slumber whence I shall not wake,
Of darkness where no life will grope ;
I know your hopeless creed, and take
My part therein for your dear sake,
We stand asunder if I hope.
MARGARET VELEY LADY CURRIE
295
And yet I dreara'd of a fair land
Where you and I were met at last,
And face to face, and hand in hand,
Sinil'd at the sorrow overpast.
The eastern sky was touch'd with fire,
In the dim woodlands cooed the dove,
Earth waited, tense with strong desire,
For day your coming, O my love !
The breeze awoke to breathe your name,
And through the leafy maze I came
With feet that could not turn aside,
With eyes that would not be denied
My lips, my heart a rosy flame,
Because you kiss'd me ere I died.
Death could but part us for a while ;
Beyond the boundary of years
We met again oh, do not smile
That tender smile, more sad than tears !
Forget my vision sweet and vain,
Your faith is mine your faith is best ;
Let others count the joys they gain,
I am a thousand times more blest.
They can but give a scanty dole
Out of a life made safe in heaven,
While I am sovereign o'er the whole,
I can give all and all is given !
Faith such as ours defies the grave,
Nor needs a dream of bliss above
Shall not this moment make me brave ?
O aloe-flower of perfect love !
What though the end of all be come,
The latest hour, the latest breath,
This is life's triumph, and its sum,
The aloe-flower of love and death !
And yet your kisses wake a life
That throbs in anguish through my heart,
Leads up to wage despairing strife,
And shudders, loathing to depart.
Can such desire be born in vain,
Crush'd by inevitable doom ?
While you let live can Love be slain ?
Can Love lie dead within my tomb ?
And when you die that hopeless day
When darkness comes and utmost need,
And I am dead and cold, you say,
Will Death have power to hold his
prey?
Shall I not know ? Shall I not heed ?
When your last sun, with waning light,
Below the sad horizon dips,
Shall I not rush from out the night
To die once more upon your lips ?
Ah, the black moment comes ! Draw
nigh,
Stoop down, O Love, and hold me fast.
O empty earth ! O empty sky !
There is no answer, though I die
Breathing my soul out in the cry,
Is it the first kiss or the last ?
3tafcp Ctirrie
("VIOLET FANE")
A MAY SONG
A LITTLE while my love and I,
Before the mowing of the hay,
Twin'd daisy-chains and cowslip-balls,
And caroll'd glees and madrigals,
Before the hay, beneath the may,
My love (who lov'd me then) and I.
For long years now my love and I
Tread sever'd paths to varied ends ;
We sometimes meet, and sometimes say
The trivial things of every day,
And meet as comrades, meet as friends,
My love (who lov'd me once) and I.
But never more my love and I
Will waader forth, as once, together,
Or sing, the songs we us'd to sing
In spring-time, in the cloudless weather ;
Some chord is mute that us'd to ring,
Some word forgot we us'd to say
Amongst the may, before the hay,
My love (who loves me not) and I
A FOREBODING
I DO not dread an alter'd heart,
Or that long line of laud or sea
Should separate my love from me,
I dread that drifting slow apart
All unresisted, unrestrain d
Which comes to some when they hare
gain'd
The dear endeavor of their soul.
296
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
As two light skiffs that sail'd together,
Through days and nights of tranquil
weather,
Adown some inland stream, might be
Drifted asunder, each from each ;
When, floating with the tide, they reach
The hop'd-for end, the promis'd goal,
The sudden glory of the sea.
IN GREEN OLD GARDENS
IN green old gardens, hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of strife,
Where the bird may sing out his soul
ere he dies,
Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day ;
Where the high red walls, which are grow
ing gray
With their lichen and moss embroi
deries,
Seem sadly and sternly to shut out Life,
Because it is often as sad as they ;
Where even the bee has time to glide
(Gathering gayly his honey'd store)
Right to the heart of the old-world
flowers,
China-asters and purple stocks,
Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks,
Laburnums raining their golden show
ers,
Columbines prim of the folded core,
And lupins, and larkspurs, and " London
pride";
Where the heron is waiting amongst the
reeds,
Grown tame in the silence that reigns
around,
Broken only, now and then,
By shy woodpecker or noisy jay,
By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay ;
But where never the purposeless laugh
ter of men,
Or the seething city's murmurous sound
Will float up under the river-weeds.
Here may I live what life I please,
Married and buried out of sight,
Married to pleasure, and buried to
pain,
Hidden away amongst scenes like these,
Under the fans of the chestnut trees ;
Living my child-life over again,
With the further hope of a fuller delight,
Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.
In green old gardens hidden away
From sight of revel and sound of
strife,
Here have I leisure to breathe and
move,
And to do my work in a nobler way ;
To sing my songs, and to say my say ;
To dream my dreams, and to love my
love ;
To hold my faith, and to live my life,
Making the most of its shadowy day.
AFTERWARDS
I KNOW that these poor rags of woman
hood,
This oaten pipe, whereon the wild winds
play'd
Making sad music, tatter'd and out-
fray'd,
Cast off, play'd out, can hold no more of
good,
Of love, or song, or sense of sun and
shade.
What homely neighbors elbow me (hard by
'Neath the black yews) I know I shall
not know,
Nor take account of changing winds
that blow,
Shifting the golden arrow, set on high
On the gray spire, nor mark who come
and go.
Yet would I lie in some familiar place,
Nor share my rest with uncongenial
dead,
Somewhere, maybe, where friendly feet
will tread,
As if from out some little chink of space
Mine eyes might see them tripping over
head.
And though too sweet to deck a sepulchre
Seem twinkling daisy-buds, and meadow
grass;
And so, would more than serve me, lest
they pass
Who fain would know what woman rested
there,
What her demeanor, or her story was,
LADY CURRIE WADDINGTON ERNEST MYERS 297
For these I would that on a sculptur'd
stone
(Fenced round with ironwork to keep se
cure)
Should sleep a form with folded palms
demure,
In aspect like the dreamer that was gone,
With these words carv'd, "Ihop'd, but was
not sure.
IDafcDmrtton
THE INN OF CARE
AT Nebra, by the Unstrut,
So travellers declare,
There stands an ancient tavern,
It is the " Inn of Care."
To all the world 't is open ;
It sets a goodly fare ;
And every soul is welcome
That deigns to sojourn there.
The landlord with his helpers,
(He is a stalwart host),
To please his guest still labors
With " bouilli " and with " roast ; "
And ho ! he laughs so roundly,
He laughs, and loves to boast
That he who bears the beaker
May live to share the " toast."
Lucus a non lucendo
Thus named might seem the inn,
So careless is its laughter,
So loud its merry din ;
Yet ere to doubt its title
You do, in sooth, begin,
Go, watch the pallid faces
Approach and pass within.
To Nebra, by the Unstrut,
May all the world repair,
And meet a hearty welcome,
And share a goodly fare ;
The world ! ' t is worn and weary
T is tir'd of gilt and glare ;
The inn ! 't is nam'd full wisely,
It is the " Inn of Care."
SOUL AND BODY
WHERE wert thou, Soul, ere yet mybody
born
Became thy dwelling-place ? Didst thou
on earth,
Or in the clouds, await this body's birth ?
Or by what chance upon that winter's morn
Didst thou this body find, a babe forlorn ?
Didst thou in sorrow enter, or in mirth ?
Or for a jest, perchance, to try its worth
Thou tookest flesh, ne'er from it to be torn ?
Nay, Soul, I will not mock thee ; 'well I
know
Thou wert not on the earth, nor in the sky ;
For with my body's growth thou too didst
grow ;
But with that body's death wilt thou too die ?
I know not, and thou canst not tell me, so
In doubt we '11 go together, thou and L
GORDON
i
ON through the Libyan sand
Rolls ever, mile on mile,
League on long league, cleaving the rain
less land,
Fed by no friendly wave, the immemorial
Nile.
II
Down through the cloudless air,
Undimm'd, from heaven's sheer height,
Bend their inscrutable gaze, austere and
bare,
In long-proceeding pomp, the stars of Lib
yan night.
2Q8
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
in
Beneath the stars, beside the unpaushig
flood,
Earth trembles at the wandering lion's roar ;
Trembles again, when in blind thirst of
blood
Sweep the wild tribes along the startled
shore.
IV
They sweep and surge and struggle, and
are gone :
The mournful desert silence reigns again,
The immemorial River rolleth on,
The order'd stars gaze blank upon the
plain.
V
O awful Presence of the lonely Nile,
O awful Presence of the starry sky,
Lo, in this little while
Unto^the mind's true-seeing inward eye
There hath arisen there
Another haunting Presence as sublime,
As great, as sternly fair ;
Yea, rather fairer far
Than stream, or sky, or star,
To live while star shall burn or river roll,
Unmarr'd by marring Time,
The crown of Being, a heroic soul.
VI
Beyond the weltering tides of worldly
change
He saw the invisible things,
The eternal Forms of Beauty and of Right ;
Wherewith well pleas'd his spirit wont to
range,
Rapt with divine delight,
Richer than empires, royaler than kings.
VII
Lover of children, lord of fiery fight,
Saviour of empires, servant of the poor,
Not in the sordid scales of earth, unsure,
Deprav'd, adulterate,
He measur'd small and great,
But by some righteous balance wrought in
heaven,
To his pure hand by Powers empyreal given ;
Therewith, by men unmov'd, as God he
judged aright.
VIII
As on the broad sweet-water'd river tost
Falls some poor grain of salt,
And melts to naught, nor leaves embitter
ing trace ;
As in the o'er-arching vault
With unrepell'd assault
A cloudy climbing vapor, lightly lost,
Vanisheth utterly in the starry space ;
So from our thought, when his enthron'd
estate
We inly contemplate,
All wrangling phantoms fade, and leave us
face to face.
IX
Dwell in us, sacred spirit, as in thee
Dwelt the eternal Love, the eternal Life,
Nor dwelt in only thee ; not thee alone
We honor reverently,
But in thee all who in some succoring
strife,
By day or dark, world-witness'd or un
known,
Crush'd by the crowd, or in late harvest
hail'd,
Warring thy war have triumph'd, or have
faiPd.
Nay, but not only there
Broods thy great Presence, o'er the Libyan
plain.
It haunts a kindlier clime, a dearer air,
The liberal air of England, thy lov'd home.
Thou through her sunlit clouds and flying
rain
Breathe, and all winds that sweep her island
shore
Rough fields of riven foam,
Where in stern watch her guardian break
ers roar.
Ay, thron'd with all her mighty memories,]
Wherefrom her nobler sons their nurture
draw,
With all of good or great
For aye incorporate
That rears her race to faith and generous
shame,
To high-aspiring awe,
To hate implacable of thick-thronging lies,
To scorn of gold and gauds and clamorous
fame ;
ERNEST MYERS SAVAGE-ARMSTRONG
299
r itl> all we guard most dear and most
divine,
ill records rank'd with thine,
Here be thy home, brave soul, thy undecay-
ing shrine.
ETSI OMNES, EGO NON
HERE where under earth his head
Finds a last and lonely bed,
Let him speak upon the stone :
Etsi omnes, ego non.
Here he shall not know the eyes
Bent upon their sordid prize
Earthward ever, nor the beat
Of the hurrying faithless feet.
None to make him perfect cheer
Join'd him on his journey drear ;
Some too soon, who fell away ;
Some too late, who mourn to-day.
Yet while comrades one by one
Made denial and were gone,
Not the less he labor'd on :
Elsi omnes, ego non.
Surely his were heart and mind
Meet for converse with his kind,
Light of genial fancy free,
Grace of sweetest sympathy.
But his soul had other scope,
Holden of a larger hope,
Larger hope and larger love.
Meat to eat men knew not of :
Knew not, know not yet shall sound
From this place of Loly ground
Even this legend thereupon,
Etsi omnea, ego non.
"THE SEA-MAIDS' MUSIC
ONE moment the boy, as he wander'd by
night
Where the far-spreading foam in the moon-
beam was white,
One moment he caught on the breath of
the breeze
The voice of the sisters that sing in the seas.
One moment, no more : though the boy
linger'd long,
No more might he hear of the raermaidens*
song,
But the pine-woods behind him moanM
low from the land,
And the ripple gush'd soft at his feet on
the sand.
Yet or ever they ceas'd, the strange sound
of their joy
Had lighted a light in the breast of the
boy :
And the seeds of a wonder, a splendor to be
Had been breath'd through hia soul from
the songs of the sea.
AUTUMN MEMORIES
WHEN russet beech-leaves drift in air,
And withering bracken gilds the ling,
And red haws brighten hedgerows bare,
And only plaintive robins sing ;
When autumn whirlwinds curl the sea,
And mountain-tops are cold with haze,
Then saddest thoughts revisit me,
I sit and dream of the olden days.
When chestnut-leaves lie yellow on ground,
And brown nuts break the prickled husk,
And nests on naked boughs are found,
And swallows shrill no more at dusk,
And folks are glad in house to be,
And up the flue the faggots blaze,
Then climb my little boys my knee
To hear me tell of the olden day*
THE MYSTERY
YEAR after year
The leaf and the shoot ;
The babe and the nestling,
The worm at the root ;
The bride at the altar,
The corpse on the bier
The Earth and its story,
Year after year,
300
COMPOSITE IDYLLIC SCHOOL
Whither are tending,
And whence do they rise,
The cycles of changes,
The worlds in their skies,
The seasons that roll'd
Ere I flash'd from the gloom,
And will roll on as now
When I 'm dust in the tomb ?
ONE IN THE INFINITE
ROLL on, and with thy rolling crnst
That round thy poles thou twirlest,
Roll with thee, Earth, this grain of dust,
As through the Vast thou whirlest ;
On, on through zones of dark and light
Still waft me, blind and reeling,
Around the sun, and with his flight
In wilder orbits wheeling.
Speed on through deeps without a shore,
This Atom with thee bearing,
' Thyself a grain of dust no more
'Mid fume of systems flaring.
Ah, what am I to thirst for power,
Or pore on Nature's pages,
Whirl' d onward, living for an hour,
And dead through endless ages ?
MY GUIDE
SHE leads me on through storm and calm,
My glorious Angel girt with light ;
By dazzling isles of tropic balm,
By coasts of ice in northern night.
Now far amid the mountain shades
Her footprints gleam like golden fire,
And now adown the leafy glades
I chase the music of her lyre.
And now amid the tangled pines
That darkly robe the gorgeous steep
She beckons where in woven lines
The sunbeams through the darkness
creep,
And shows in glimpses far below
The champaign stretching leagues away,
Fair cities veil'd in summer's glow
Or sparkling in the cloudless ray.
At times on seas with tempest loud,
The pilot of my bark, she stands,
And, through the rifts of driving cloud,
To tranquil bays of bounteous lands,
The grassy creek, the bowery shore,
The fringe of many a charmed realm.
She steers me safe by magic lore,
Her white arm leaning on the helm.
When, sick at heart and worn, mine eyes
I bend to earth in long despair,
She lifts her finger to the skies,
The violet deeps of lucid air,
The myriad myriad orbs that roll
In endless throngs in living space,
And all the vision of her soul
Is mirror 'd in her radiant face.
"THE FATHER"
IF it were only a dream,
Were it not good to cherish,
Seeing to lose its beam
Is in despair to perish
Maker and Father and Friend,
Yearning in pity to guide me,
Leading me on to the end,
Ever in love beside me,
Never in storm or gloom
Deaf to a cry of sorrow,
Kindling beyond the tomb
Light of an endless morrow ?
Yea, if 't were only a dream,
Better it were to clasp it,
Brood on it until it seem
Real as the lives that grasp it.
Helpless, feeble, and lost,
Groping in Wisdom's traces,
Whirl 'd like a leaf, and tost
Out in the awful spaces,
Oh, how the heart betray'd
Bounds, into life upleaping,
Trusting that He who made
Watch over all is keeping !
WOODS MRS. CRAWFORD
THE SOUL STITHY
[Y soul, asleep between its body-throes,
[id leagues of darkness watch'd a furnace
glare,
breastless arms that wrought labori
ous there,
Power without plan, wherefrom no purpose
grows,
Welding white metal on a forge with blows,
Whence stream'd the singing sparks like
flaming hair,
Which whirling gusts ever abroad would
bear :
And still the stithy hammers fell and rose.
And then I knew those sparks were souls
of men,
And watch'd them driven like starlets down
the wind.
A myriad died and left no trace to tell ;
An hour like will-o'-the-wisps some lit the
fen;
Now one would leave a trail of fire behind :
And still the stithy-hammers rose and fell.
THE WORLD'S DEATH-NIGHT
I THINK a stormless night-time shall ensue
Unto the world, yearning for hours of
calm:
Not these the end, nor sudden-closing
palm
Of a God's hand beneath the skies we
knew,
Nor fall from a fierce heaven of fiery dew
In place of the sweet dewfall, the world's
balm,
Nor swell of elemental triumph-psalm
Round the long-buffeted bulk, rent through
and through.
But in the even of its endless night,
With shoreless floods of moonlight on its
breast,
And baths of healing mist about its scars,
An instant sums its circling years of flight,
And the tir'd earth hangs crystall'd into
rest,
Girdled with gracious watchings of the
stars.
BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS
ouia
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN
KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN ! the gray dawn
is breaking,
The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill ;
The lark from her light wing the bright
dew is shaking,
Kathleen Mavourneen ! what, slumber
ing still ?
Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must
sever ?
Oh ! hast thou forgotten this day we must
part?
It may be for years, and it may be forever !
Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of
my heart ?
Oh ! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavour
neen ?
CratoforD
Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy
slumbers !
The blue mountains glow in the sun's
golden light ;
Ah, where is the spell that once hung on
my numbers ?
Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my
night !
Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears
are falling,
To think that from Erin and thee I
must part t
It may be for years, and it may be for
ever !
Then why art thou silent, thou voice of
my heart ?
Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mar
vourneen ?
3 02
BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS
THE OLD CAVALIER
" FOR our martyr'd Charles I pawn'd my
plate,
For his son I spent my all,
That a churl might dine, and drink my wine,
And preach in my father's hall :
That father died on Marston Moor,
My son on Worcester plain ;
But the king he turn'd his back on me
When he got his own again.
" The other day, there came, God wot !
A solemn, pompous ass,
Who begged to know if I did not go
To the sacrifice of Mass :
I told him fairly to his face,
That in the field of fight
I had shouted loud for Church and King,
When he would have run outright.
" He talk'd of the Man of Babylon
With his rosaries and copes,
As if a Roundhead was n't worse
Than half a hundred Popes.
I don't know what the people mean,
With their horror and affright ;
All Papists that I ever knew
Fought stoutly for the right.
" I now am poor and lonely,
This cloak is worn and old,
But yet it warms my loyal heart,
Through sleet, and rain, and cold,
When I call to mind the Cavaliers,
Bold Rupert at their head,
Bursting through blood and fire, with cries
That might have wak'd the dead.
'* Then spur and sword was the battle word,
And we made their helmets ring,
Howling like madmen, all the while,
For God and for the King.
And though they snuffled psalms, to give
The Rebel-dogs their due,
When the roaring shot pour'd close and hot
They were stalwart men and true.
" On the fatal field of Naseby,
Where Rupert lost the day
By hanging on the flying crowd
Like a lion on his prey,
I stood and fought it out, until,
In spite of plate and steel,
The blood that left my veins that day
Flow'd up above my heel.
" And certainly, it made those quail
Who never quail'd before,
To look upon the awful front
Which Cromwell's horsemen wore.
I felt that every hope was gone,
When I saw their squadrons form,
And gather for the final charge
Like the coming of the storm.
" Oh ! where was Rupert in that hour
Of danger, toil, and strife ?
It would have been to all brave men
Worth a hundred years of life
To have seen that black and gloomy force,
As it poured down in line,
Met midway by the Royal horse
And Rupert of the Rhine.
" All this is over now, and I
Must travel to the tomb,
Though the king I serv'd has got his own,
In poverty and gloom.
Well, well, I serv'd him for himself,
So I must not now complain,
But I often wish that I had died
With my son on Worcester plain."
THE PRIVATE OF THE BUFFS
LAST night, among his fellow roughs,
He jested, quaff'd, and swore :
A drunken private of the Buffs,
Who never look'd before.
To-day, beneath the foeman's frown,
He stands in Elgin's place,
Ambassador from Britain's crown,
And type of all her race.
Poor, reckless, rude, low-born, untaughtj
Bewilder'd, and alone,
A heart, with English instinct fraught,
He yet can call his own.
Ay, tear his body limb from limb,
Bring cord, or axe, or flame :
He only knows, that not through him
Shall England come to shame.
DOYLE THACKERAY
303
Far Kentish hop-fields round him seemM,
Like dreams, to come and go ;
Bright leagues of cherry-blossom gleam'd,
One sheet of living snow ;
The smoke, above his father's door,
In gray soft eddyings hung :
Must lie then watch it rise no more,
Doom'd by himself, so young ?
Yes, honor calls ! with strength like steel
He put the vision by.
Let dusky Indians whine and kneel ;
An English lad must die.
And thus, with eyes that would not shrink,
With knee to man unbent,
Unfaltering on its dreadful brink,
To his red grave he went.
Vain, mightiest fleets, of iron fram'd ;
Vain, those all-shattering guns ;
Unless proud England keep, untam'd,
The strong heart of her sons.
So, let his name through Europe ring
A man of mean estate,
Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,
Because his soul was great.
AT THE CHURCH GATE
ALTHOUGH I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover ;
And near the sacred gate,
With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
The minster bell tolls out
Above the city's rout,
And noise and humming ;
They 've hush'd the minster bell :
The organ 'gins to swell ;
She 's coming, she 's coming !
My lady comes at last,
Timid and stepping fast
And hastening thither,
With modest eyes downcast ;
She comes she 's here, she 's past !
May heaven go with her !
Kneel undisturb'd, fair saint I
Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly ;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits, who wait,
And see, through heaven's gate,
Angels within it.
THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE
A STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,
Rue Neuve des pet its Champs its name
is
The New Street of the Little Fields ;
And there's an inn, not rich and splen
did,
But still in comfortable case
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is
A sort of soup, or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo ;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffern,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace ;
All these you eat at Terre"s tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 't is ;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good
drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is ?
Yes, here the lamp is as before ;
The smiling, red-cheeked e'caillere IB
Still opening oysters at the door.
34
BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS
Is Terrd still alive and able ?
I recollect his droll grimace ;
He 'd come and smile before your table,
And hop'd you lik'd your Bouillabaisse.
We enter ; nothing 's changed or older.
" How 's Monsieur Terrd, waiter, pray ? "
The waiter stares and shrugs his shoulder;
" Monsieur is dead this many a day. "
Cl It is the lot of saint and sinner.
So honest Terre* 's run his race ! "
* What will Monsieur require for dinner ? "
" Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse ? "
" Oh, oui, Monsieur, " 's the waiter's an
swer ;
" Quel vin Monsieur ddsire-t-il ? "
" Tell me a good one." " That I can, sir ;
The Chambertin with yellow seal. "
" So Terrd 's gone, " I say and sink in
My old accustom'd corner-place ;
" He 's done with feasting and with drink
ing,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse. "
My old accustom'd corner here is
The table still is in the nook ;
Ah ! vanish'd many a busy year is,
This well-known chair since last I took.
When first I saw ye, Cari luoghi,
I 'd scarce a beard upon my face,
And now a grizzled, grim old fogy,
I sit and wait for Bouillabaisse.
Where are you, old companions trusty
Of early days, here met to dine ?
Come, waiter ! quick, a flagon crusty
I '11 pledge them in the good old wine.
The kind old voices and old faces
My memory can quick retrace ;
Around the board they take their places,
And share the wine and Bouillabaisse.
There 's Jack has made a wondrous mar
riage ;
There 's laughing Tom is laughing yet ;
There 's brave Augustus drives his carriage ;
There 's poor old Fred in the Gazette ;
On James's head the grass is growing :
Good Lord ! the world has wagg'd apace
Since here we set the Claret flowing,
And drank, and ate the Bouillabaisse.
Ah me ! how quick the days are flitting !
I mind me of a time that 's gone,
When here I 'd sit, as now I 'm sitting,
In this same place but not alone.
A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face look'd fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smil'd to cheer me.
There 's no one now to share my cup.
I drink it as the Fates ordain it.
Come, fill it, and have done with rhymes j
Fill up the lonely glass, and drain it
In memory of dear old times.
Welcome the wine, whate'er the seal is ;
And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse !
THE AGE OF WISDOM
Ho ! pretty page, with the dimpled chin,
That never has known the barber's shear,
All your wish is woman to win ;
This is the way that boys begin :
Wait till you come to forty year.
Curly gold locks cover foolish brains ;
Billing and cooing is all your cheer
Sighing, and singing of midnight strains,
Under Bonnybell's window panes :
Wait till you come to forty year.
Forty times over let Michaelmas pass ;
Grizzling hair the brain doth clear ;
Then you know a boy is an ass,
Then you know the worth of a lass,
Once you have come to forty year.
Pledge me round ; I bid ye declare,
All good fellows whose beards are gray.
Did not the fairest of the fair
Common grow and wearisome ere
Ever a month was pass'd away ?
The reddest lips that ever have kiss'd,
The brightest eyes that ever have shone,
May pray and whisper and we not list,
Or look away and never be miss'd,
Ere yet ever a mouth is gone.
Gillian 's dead ! God rest her bier
How I loved her twenty years syne !
Marian 's married ; but I sit here,
Alone and merry at forty year,
Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine.
WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY
305
SORROWS OF WERTHER
WERTHER had a love for Charlotte
Such as words could never utter ;
Would you know how first he met her ?
She was cutting bread and butter.
Charlotte was a married lady,
And a moral man was Werther,
And for all the wealth of Indies
Would do nothing for to hurt her.
So he sigh'd and pin'd and ogled,
And his passion boil'd and bubbled,
Till he blew his silly brains out,
And no more was by it troubled.
Charlotte, having seen his body
Borne before her on a shutter,
Like a well-conducted person,
Went on cutting bread and butter.
THE PEN AND THE ALBUM
I AM Miss Catherine's book " (the Al
bum speaks) ;
" I Ve lain among your tomes these many
weeks ;
I'm tir'd of your old coats and yellow
cheeks.
" Quick, Pen ! and write a line with a good
grace ;
Come ! draw me off a funny little face ;
Ami. prithee, send me back to Chesham
Place."
PEN
I am my master's faithful old Gold Pen ;
I Ve serv'd him three long years, and drawn
since then
Thousands of funny women and droll men.
O Album ! could I tell you all his ways
And thoughts, since I am his, these thou
sand days,
Lord, how your pretty pages I 'd amaze !
ALBUM
His ways ? his thoughts ? Just whisper
me a few ;
Tell me a curious anecdote or two,
And write 'em quickly off, good Mordan, do !
PEN
Since he my faithful service did engage
To follow him through his queer pilgrimage,
I ' ve drawn and written many a line and page.
Caricatures I scribbled have, and rhymes,
And dinner cards, and picture pantomimes,
And merry little children's books at times.
I 've writ the foolish fancy of his brain ;
The aimless jest that, striking, hath caus'd
r'n;
vord that he 'd wish back again.
Iv'e help'd him to pen many a line for
bread ;
To joke, with sorrow aching" in his head ;
Andj make your laughter when his own
heart bled.
I 've spoke with men of all degree and
sort
Peers of the land, and ladies of the Court ;
O, but I 've chouicled a deal of sport.
Feasts that were ate a thousand days ago,
Biddings to wine that long hath ceas'd to
flow,
Gay meetings with good fellows long laid
low ;
Summons to bridal, banquet, burial, ball,
Tradesman's polite reminders of his small
Account due Christmas last I 've an-
swer'd all.
Poor Diddler's tenth petition for a half
Guinea ; Miss Bunyan's for an autograph ;
So I refuse, accept, lament, or laugh,
Condole, congratulate, invite, praise, scoff,
Day after day still dipping in my trough,
And scribbling pages after pages off.
Day after day the labor 's to be done,
And sure as comes the postman and the sun,
The indefatigable ink must run.
Go back, my pretty little gilded tome,
To a fair mistress and a pleasant home,
Where soft hearts greet us whensoe'er WQ
come.
BALLADISTS AND LYRISTS
Dear, friendly eyes, with constant kindness
lit,
However rude my verse, or poor my wit,
Or sad or gay my mood, you welcome it.
Kind lady ! till my last of lines is penn'd,
My master's love, grief, laughter, at an end,
Whene'er I write your name, may I write
friend !
Not all are so that were so in past years ;
Voices, familiar once, no more he hears ;
Names, often writ, are blotted out in tears.
So be it : joys will end and tears will
dry
Album ! my master bids me wish good-
by;
He '11 send you to your mistress presently.
And thus with thankful heart he closes
you ;
Blessing the happy hour when a friend he
knew
So gentle, and so generous, and so true.
Nor pass the words as idle phrases by;
Stranger ! I never writ a flattery,
Nor sign'd the page that register 'd a lie.
THE MAHOGANY TREE
CHRISTMAS is here ;
Winds whistle shrill,
Icy and chill,
Little care we ;
Little we fear
Weather without,
Shelter'd about
The Mahogany Tree.
Once on the boughs
Birds of rare plume
Sang, in its bloom ;
Night birds are we ;
Here we carouse,
Singing, like them,
Perch'd round the stem
Of the jolly old tree.
Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,
Round the old tree.
Evenings we knew,
Happy as this ;
Faces we miss,
Pleasant to see.
Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust !
We sing round the tree.
Care, like a dun,
Lurks at the gate :
Let the dog wait ;
Happy we '11 be !
Drink every one ;
Pile up the coals,
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree.
Drain we the cup.
Friend, art afraid ?
Spirits are laid
In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up ;
Empty it yet ;
Let us forget,
Round the old tree.
Sorrows, begone !
Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,
Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite,
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree.
THE END OF THE PLAY
THE play is done the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell ;
A moment yet the actor stops,
And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome word and task ;
And, when he 's laugh'd and said his sa;y v
He shows, as he removes the mask,
A face that 's anything but gay.
One word, ere yet the evening ends :
Let 's close it with a parting rhyme,
THACKERAY DICKENS
307
pledge a hand to all young friends,
3 fits the merry Christmas time ;
hi life's wide scene you, too, have parts,
That fate ere long shall bid you play ;
1-niglit ! with honest gentle hearts
kindly greeting go alway !
Good-night ! I 'd say the griefs, the joys,
Just hinted in this mimic page,
The triumphs and defeats of boys,
Are but repeated in our age ;
I 'd say your woes were not less keen,
Your hopes more vain, than those of
men,
Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen
At forty-five played o'er again.
I 'd say we suffer and we strive
Not less nor more as men than boys,
With grizzled beards at forty-five,
As erst at twelve in corduroys,
And if, in time of sacred youth,
We learn'd at home to love and pray,
Pray heaven that early love and truth
May never wholly pass away.
And in the world, as in the school,
I 'd say how fate may change and shift,
The prize be sometimes with the fool,
The race not always to the swift ;
The strong may yield, the good may fall,
The great man be a vulgar clown,
The knave be lifted over all,
The kind